


By The Red Roses

by REVVIII



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Greek gods, Immortality, Legends, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Patroclus is a healer, Pining, Protective Achilles, Protectiveness, Smut, Suspicious Briseis, What is accuracy, Wilderness, myths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 99,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/REVVIII/pseuds/REVVIII
Summary: Achilles is feral, predatory, and deadly, and Patroclus is fascinated by him.The trouble is, Achilles is fascinated by Patroclus too.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

“Patroclus!”

Patroclus turned to see his mentor walking towards him, a frown turning the corners of his lips and a crease deepening between his eyes. He sighed. Polarius only looked like this when he needed Patroclus to do something, but it was Patroclus’s day off. Reluctantly, he turned and waited to see what Polarius wanted.

Polarius’s scowl deepened as he approached. “Patroclus, I need you for something. That boy Chileus has gone and challenged Arasseon to a fight and I’m thinking he’s going to need you soon.”

Patroclus raised his eyebrows. “Chileus challenged Arasseon? Is he out of his mind?” Arasseon was the best fighter Opus had to offer.

Chileus was twelve.

“Who knows what that idiot is up to?” Polarius grumbled. “Anyway, I’m going to need you to take care of him. I will be looking after your mother, and you’re the best healer I have.”

“My mother? How is she? When can I see her?” Philomena was a sweet but weak woman in both mind and body, and she had been continuously ill since the new year several months ago. She had been in isolation; Polarius only allowed a few visitors to minimize the chance that she catch ill again and Patroclus hadn’t seen her for two months.

Polarius frowned. “If she continues to do well, you will be able to see her in a few days. She’s been on a consistent uphill this past month, but I want to check on her just in case. Which is why I need you to take care of that idiot of a boy.”

Patroclus sighed. “Okay, okay. I’ll go sit in my tent and wait for him to come find me.”

“Thank you, Patroclus. Don’t be afraid to give him a piece of your mind.”

“Oh, I won’t be,” Patroclus muttered, and went to fetch his healing supplies.

On his way to the tent, Patroclus saw a dozen young children no older than ten gathered around the old storyteller’s stool, waiting for today’s tale to begin. His steps slowed and he drew closer to the small circle, listening to the story with a small smile on his face, unwittingly allowing himself to be drawn in.

Telerias always had that effect. He was like a spellcaster with his artful words, his painter’s hands, his soothing, smooth, silk-like voice, telling tales of Achilles, of Odysseus, of Heracles, of the heroes in the myths of old. Tonight’s story was of Achilles, a story that Patroclus had heard parts of before but never the whole thing.

Achilles. The greatest warrior in all of history. Hero of the Greeks, bane of Troy. But then, after the war, he had disappeared.

That was all Patroclus knew, and he listened to Telerias’s story, breathing it in like it was the oxygen that kept him alive, drinking it in like a dying man gulps down water. Achilles. The name itself was like music, yet strong and noble, betraying the deadly fighter within.

Patroclus was not one for fairytales or myths. He did not believe in fate. And yet, he found himself unable to pull away from the myth that was Achilles Pelides.

Then, Telerias said something that Patroclus had never heard before.

_Some say he is immortal, and his blood gives you the power to live forever. And some say he lurks in the woods just beyond the walls of Opus._

Distantly, a fox screamed, jolting Patroclus out of the storyteller’s spell. He stepped back reluctantly from the circle and headed to his tent.

His best friend Briseis was waiting for him and tsked at him when he entered. Behind her, Patroclus saw Chileus already lying on the bed, his breathing fast and shallow. His chiton was torn open and blood was seeping from a wound on his side.

“Where were you?” Briseis demanded. “We’ve been waiting for forever!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Patroclus muttered, hurriedly setting down his box of supplies on the table and crouching beside the bed. _Achilles was a myth._

Chileus whimpered when Patroclus pulled back his chiton to expose the wound.

“Oh, be quiet,” Patroclus grumbled. “You’re the one who got yourself into this, you know. What were you thinking, taking on someone like Arasseon? Oh, wait, you weren’t thinking, that’s right.”

Briseis slapped his shoulder lightly. “Stop being so mean,” she scolded. “He’s only twelve.”

“Well, when _I_ was twelve, I wasn’t going after the best warriors asking them to fight me as if I thought I were a match for them,” Patroclus shot back, dipping a washcloth into a bowl of boiled water and sponging Chileus’s wound clean. _Achilles was a myth._ Why did he need to tell himself this? He didn’t believe in myths. Telerias was just saying he was in the woods to scare the children.

Briseis sighed and rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up in defeat and storming out of the tent. “Alright, alright. Do what you want, you’re the healer here.”

“Yeah, and it’s my day off,” Patroclus muttered, to which Chileus flinched in what Patroclus thought had better be shame.

Patroclus leaned down to take a closer look at the wound. “Hmm, not as deep as I expected it to be; clearly Arasseon took it easy on you,” he mused. “Anyway, I’m still going to have to disinfect it.” He went back to his box and rummaged through it until he found the bottle of disinfectant, pouring a little into a bowl and mixing it with aloe vera paste, and fresh chamomile.

“What’s – what’s that for?” Chileus asked.

“Disinfectant, I just said,” Patroclus grumped. “And aloe vera to reduce swelling.” He spread some of the mixture onto a wooden spoon and spread it over the wound.

Chileus flinched away and yelped.

“Sorry, it stings,” Patroclus muttered. “Should’ve thought about this before you challenged the best warrior in Opus, you nuthead.” He dabbed a little more of the mixture onto the end of the wound and sat back with a frown. “You’re not going to need this stitched, thank the Gods. You barely held still enough for me to put the disinfectant on.”

Chileus squirmed. “Sorry, sorry.”

Patroclus sighed. “Stop _moving_ , for God’s sake. I still have to wrap it, and then you can leave.” He fetched some fresh bandages from the shelves and wrapped them tightly around the boy’s torso before he gestured silently for the boy to go.

He had other things on his mind.

 

 

“The legend of the great Achilles,” the storyteller had said, leaning forward with his voice hushed for dramatic effect. “He was a fierce fighter. The best to ever have lived, they say. He was wild and unbound, and unpredictable. No one knew what he was going to do next.

“Some say he was half human, half god. Some say he’s not human at all.”

The children gathered around had gasped, their eyes widening with awe, fear, and disbelief. The old man chuckled at their reactions.

“Some say he is immortal, and his blood gives you the power to live forever. And some say he lurks in the woods just beyond the walls of Opus.”

The children had gasped. One little girl clutched at her older brother.

“But,” the old man had whispered, leaning forward with a toothy grin, “no one knows for sure. He is never seen.”

 

 

_Achilles was a myth._

 

 

Patroclus walked down the beaten path, gathering the sage plants and ginger roots that grew alongside it, all the while shaking his head that he would have to go extra far today to retrieve yarrow; their stocks were low and normally Polarius sent one of the servants or younger boys out, but he was teaching them how to stitch today.

He sighed, turning off of the worn path onto a smaller, less-worn one that lead to the yarrow plants, following it for about a mile before pausing to take a drink from the stream that ran alongside it.

A branch snapped a few hundred meters to his left.

Patroclus shot upright, whipping out the small knife he carried at his belt, his heart pounding as he prayed he would not have to use it. He was far from the town and in an unfamiliar part of the woods; for all he knew, someone could be out to murder him and it could take them weeks to find him.

The leaves rustled, and a moment later Patroclus saw a stag leaping gracefully through the underbrush, his tail flipped up to flash white in fear. His legs moved like pistons and his hooves struck the ground like lightning, once, twice, three times, and that was when Patroclus saw him.

Achilles.

Patroclus only saw him for a moment, just long enough to catch a glimpse of bright golden hair, the flash of a spear, a pair of deep green eyes set in a devastatingly beautiful face, before the stag screamed and he vanished.

Achilles.

Patroclus didn’t know why the name came to his mind, but it seemed to fit, and when it came it would not leave.

Achilles. It had to be Achilles. Who else could it be?

_Some say he is immortal, and his blood gives you the power to live forever. And some say he lurks in the woods just beyond the walls of Opus._

Patroclus sat down hard, his knifepoint driving deep into the earth with the force with which he let himself fall. _Achilles._ But Telerias had said that Achilles was never seen. _Was it an accident?_ No. Creatures like Achilles were never seen by accident.

Patroclus drew in a sharp breath. If he hadn’t been seen by accident…

Achilles _meant_ for Patroclus to see him. That was the only explanation.

Fear gripped him. Achilles had singled Patroclus out. He had chosen him for something. But for what? What could something like Achilles want from someone like Patroclus? There had been nothing human in those beautiful green eyes. In fact, there had been nothing at all. They were just two cold emeralds, glittering in deadly fire.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories are easily altered, and easily forgotten, in the face of things that are present.

 

 

“Patroclus? What’s wrong?”

He turned towards the worried voice, blinking when he saw Briseis staring at him from across the dinner table. Clearly she’d asked him something and he’d neglected to answer, prompting her inquiry after his well-being.

“Oh – nothing. Sorry, I was distracted.”

“Distracted.” Briseis did not sound convinced. “You’ve been staring off into space this entire meal. Tell me; what’s on your mind? I know something’s bothering you.”

“I…a deer almost ran into me today,” Patroclus said. It was not completely a lie.

Briseis raised a thin eyebrow. “And…that’s what’s been distracting you for half an hour? Come on. We both know I know you well enough to know that’s not the whole truth.”

Patroclus looked down at his soup and sniffed it suspiciously instead of answering her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Stop avoiding the question, Patroclus,” she sighed in exasperation, picking out one of the carrots in her soup and taking a bite of it. “Tell me.”

Patroclus shrugged, stirring his soup halfheartedly with his spoon. All he could think about was the beautiful godlike creature he’d seen in the woods, the story come to life.

“Paaaat,” Briseis sighed, leaning forward and twirling a finger playfully in her shoulder-length brown hair. Her expression was pleading. “Come _on_ , Pat.”

“Don’t call me that,” Patroclus muttered.

Briseis snickered. “I’ll keep calling you that if you don’t tell me, Pat. Oh, Pat, come on. Just tell me what happened! You look like you’ve seen a ghost and you haven’t touched your soup this whole time. It’s your favorite, too!”

“Is it?” Patroclus murmured distantly.

Briseis groaned. “ _Really_ , Pat?” She sighed, pushing back her chair and standing up. “Fine, don’t say anything. But eat your soup, at least.”

“Yeah.”

Briseis sighed again, looking at him despairingly before huffing and walking off to bring her dishes to wash.

 

 

Patroclus could not get Achilles out of his mind. He tried to sleep, but whenever he closed his eyes he saw cold green emeralds staring back at him and he had to open his eyes again to avoid drowning. Whenever he tried to slow his breathing he felt the grace of Achilles rushing towards him in a dazzling arc as if he were the stag, arm raised for the killing strike, and he had to breathe faster to get enough oxygen to run away.

He was spellbound by him.

_“Some say he was half human, half god. Some say he’s not human at all.”_

_Could_ he be human? How could he be human? How could anything like Achilles possibly he human? No human was that beautiful, that terrible. He was like an angel. A deadly angel.

When Patroclus finally fell asleep, there was an angel in his dreams.

 

 

The next morning, he had to check on Chileus again to make sure the wound was healing well and not getting infected. He went to the boy’s quarters in the lower area of the city and knocked on the door cautiously, hoping Chileus hadn’t told his parents about Patroclus’s snappiness the night before.

His father, a giant of a man with a scruffy beard, answered. Patroclus vaguely remembered the name Ajax. “Yes?”

“I’m here to check on your son,” Patroclus said with a slight bow. “I saw to him at my medical tent last night and I –”

“Oh yes, come in, come in,” Ajax said gruffly. “He’s in his room lazing around again.”

Patroclus hastily stepped inside and followed the man to Chileus’s room, where he saw he boy lying on his bed, playing with some small wooden models of soldiers. He sat up as Patroclus entered the room – too quickly, if Patroclus was to judge by his wince.

“Thanks,” Ajax rumbled. “I’ll leave you to it.” He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Thanks,” Chileus echoed.

“Lie back down, you absolute buffoon,” Patroclus grumbled.

Chileus obeyed instantly, once again too fast.

“Slow down, will you?” Patroclus snapped. “You’ll hurt yourself more with all your rushing around trying to follow orders.” He set his supplies down on the bedside table and knelt by the boy’s bed, lifting his bandages slightly to check on the wound. It wasn’t infected, so Patroclus changed the dressing and the bandages, told Chileus to stay still while the wound healed, collected the pay, and left.

He hadn’t forgotten about Achilles.

But it seemed like a dream. Had it really happened, or had he just imagined it? The stag itself was believable enough. But Achilles?

Patroclus shook his head, turning left and walking down the street that would lead him to the upper parts of the city where he lived. He was just passing one of the fruit stalls when he heard someone call his name.

“Patroclus!”

He turned to see Briseis weaving her way through the crowd towards him. He lifted a hand in greeting, slowing his pace until she caught up.

Briseis’s face was flushed with summer heat, her eyes bright and sparkling, her grin stretching across her face. “Glad I caught you, Pat!”

Patroclus groaned and rolled his eyes. “Still, with the nickname?”

“I did say until you told me what was on your mind,” she reminded him, kissing his cheek playfully and holding out a hand. “Here, have a fig. They’re delicious.”

Patroclus raised his eyebrows at her. “Did you pay for that?”

Briseis snorted and flipped her hair. “Of course I did, what kind of person do you think I am?” But she saw Patroclus still staring at her suspiciously and admitted, “Okay, okay, I _might_ have swiped it. But Odysseus has _so_ much money, he can just buy some more. He won’t miss it.”

Patroclus sighed. “Briseis, you _know_ you can’t just go around stealing stuff. You’re working under my father now; who knows what he’ll do if he finds out?” As king, Menoitius was one of the most powerful and influential people in Opus, even if he didn’t share those gifts with his son, and he cared about his reputation more than anything.

“It’s fun though,” Briseis pouted. “All these rich old men flouncing around like they own the place…I can’t help but take a little bit from them here and there. I deserve the good stuff just as much as they do, and you know that.”

“ _Briseis_ ,” Patroclus huffed.

“Okay, fine, it won’t happen again,” Briseis sighed. She was lying. They both knew that. But Patroclus let it slide; Briseis had been raised in the streets, watching those rich old men parading around with their fancy belongings and fresh, ripe fruit while she sat in the shadows starving, through no fault of her own.

“Just be careful,” Patroclus muttered.

Briseis grinned and hugged him. “Love you, Pat.” She kissed his cheek again and bounced off.

“Stop calling me that!” Patroclus yelled after her.

It was only when he had gotten back home that he noticed the fig she had slipped into his pocket.

 

 

Achilles was on his mind again.

Patroclus wanted to see him again. He wanted to see that beauty, that grace, that deadly power. But that was also exactly what he was scared of.

Achilles was, if Telerias’s story and the stag were anything to go by, a killing machine. And he had singled Patroclus out.

A part of him wondered if this was how Achilles got his victims. If he lured them in with his beauty and then slaughtered them like he had slaughtered the stag, his face empty of emotion, his eyes devoid of humanity.

Patroclus shuddered.

No.

He could not go back to the woods. Achilles was too addicting as it was; there was no telling what would happen if Patroclus saw him again.

 

 

As it happened, Patroclus didn’t need to go back to the woods for many years. Polarius sent the younger boys out to collect whatever new herbs he needed, and Patroclus stayed in the city of Opus.

Briseis didn’t ask about that night again, and Patroclus hoped she had forgotten about it.

He certainly hadn’t. But he was no longer sure that what he had seen was really Achilles.

Patroclus grew. On his twentieth birthday, he looked in the mirror at his long, brown limbs, the light freckles that were scattered across the bridge of his nose. His shoulders were wider than when he had seen the god in the woods, his jawline sharper, almost devoid of the baby fat that had clung to him before. The trail of hairs leading down his belly to his groin was thicker.

Briseis had also changed. She was eighteen now, a grown woman. But though she was still slender, her hips like a boy’s, her breasts small, her figure had filled out and her waist had slimmed. Her cheeks were still ever so slightly rounded and her eyes shone brightly in her olive skin. Her hair, as ever, was shoulder-length, but she wore it differently now, pulled back neatly behind her ears instead of flying wild and free.

He couldn’t help wondering how Achilles would have changed, if he had been real.

Because Achilles was a myth. That was all he was. Just a story, written into songs, sketched out in paintings, fading into the old books in the library. He was a story.

 

But no one ever said stories couldn’t be real.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps you don't outgrow fairytales. Perhaps you just become too afraid that the evil in them can be real.

 

 

Patroclus was twenty-two when he saw Achilles again.

He was back in the woods, squatting down by a rabbit’s den. He’d seen the mother returning to her babies a few days ago when Polarius had sent him to teach a new apprentice what the herbs looked like but hadn’t been able to take a closer look with the amazingly talkative other boy around, so he’d marked the nest in his mind to come back to later. But the rabbits weren’t there; a set of fox prints nearby exposed the likely culprit.

With a disappointed sigh, Patroclus stood up – and there he was.

About fifty meters away, just across the clearing, Achilles stood half cloaked in shadow. He wore a chiton riddled with holes, exposing a lean, muscular torso and long, strong limbs. His spear was longer and newer-looking but other than that, he was unchanged. He still had the same arrow-like nose, curved-bow lips, and cold, hard eyes. Even standing still, he had the same aura of grace.

The same silent deadliness.

Patroclus could not move.

Achilles was not facing him directly; his head was tilted slightly upwards and towards the trees to Patroclus’s right, but Patroclus could sense him watching him, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Predatory.

He gulped.

Part of him knew he should be terrified; Achilles was incapable of remorse, guilt, or feeling. If he decided Patroclus was a threat, he was done for. But the other part of him was like a fire, flaring up from when it had flickered dormant for years, wanting to know why Achilles had come back. Why he had chosen to show himself to him, first five years ago, then again now.

He cleared his throat.

Achilles’s eyes snapped to his face for a moment before they shifted away again, but in that moment, Patroclus felt his heartbeat quicken, felt the color rise to his cheeks with the intensity of that gaze. It was like Achilles had looked right through him.

He tried again.

“I…” His voice was thin and high and it cracked, and he swallowed hard. “Are you…you’re Achilles, right?”

There was no response, save for an infinitesimally small tilt of his chin upwards. Pride?

Patroclus blinked. “Um. I’ll take that as a yes. I…I was wondering why…why you…” He trailed off again, not sure he had even heard. And then he remembered that Achilles was probably not human, so who was to say he would even understand what Patroclus was saying?

A memory crossed his mind, of Achilles hunting the stag. Taking it down like something feral, wild and unbound like old Telerias had said.

The words came to his mouth unbidden.

“I’ve seen you before,” Patroclus blurted out, still not sure whether or not Achilles was even understanding any of this. “Five years ago. I was getting yarrow, and you were hunting a stag. I saw you. But no one ever sees you. I thought…I thought you probably let me see you. Right? So I was just wondering…why?”

Still, there was no response.

A branch snapped somewhere behind him. Patroclus whipped his head around, his eyes straining as he searched for the culprit. But he couldn’t find it, and when he turned back around, Achilles was gone.

 

 

Patroclus walked back to Opus in a daze. Already the details were slipping from his mind; as soon as he’d stepped out of the forest it was like he’d entered a different world, one where Achilles could not possibly exist.

In the forest, anything was possible. Outside of the forest, everything felt like a dream.

He made his way through the streets and back to his father’s castle at the center of the city, where he saw the servants bringing in fresh fruits and newly slaughtered lamb through the side door for dinner. Briseis was among them, easily carrying a basket of peaches with one hand. She was a wonderful seamstress and her slim frame hid a surprising strength, but everyone knew she was a disastrous cook. The kitchen was sure to release her after everything was carried in.

He waited for her in the shadows by the door leading to the back of the castle where all the food was stored, calling out to her when she came by to fetch another basket to bring in.

“Briseis!”

She turned, looking around for him, and smiled widely when she spotted him. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

“How much more are you bringing in?”

“Umm, I’m not really sure. Just some more baskets of vegetables, I think. But I could just get Chileus to get those if you really need me right now.” She grinned mischievously. “I mean, they couldn’t get mad at me if _you_ dragged me away from my chores, right? Head cook still has to listen to the prince.”

“Shut up, you know I’m not really a prince,” Patroclus grumbled. “Father would never put me on the throne if he could help it. I’m a healer, not a warrior.”

Briseis’s smile softened. “And a damn good one, at that.”

Patroclus swatted his hand at her. “Shut up. But what does Chileus have to do with this? Did he do something stupid again?” He hadn’t forgotten how Chileus had challenged Arasseon five years ago at the age of twelve.

Briseis covered her mouth with her hand to mask her widening grin. “It’s sort of mean to say it, but…yeah. He messed up again.”

Patroclus let out a loud groan and threw his hands into the air in exasperation. “His father is one of our best and smartest warriors. Why is he like this?”

“I’m not sure Ajax is the smartest,” Briseis mused. “I’d go for Odysseus. Hate him, but I have to admit he’s clever. Anyway, who knows about Chileus. He probably just wants to live up to his father. It’s a lot of pressure, you know. But he’s a sweet kid.”

“Hardly a kid anymore. He’s seventeen.”

“Take it easy on him,” Briseis scolded.

A servant walked by, carrying two large baskets on her stooped shoulders. She spotted Briseis talking to Patroclus in the shadows and proceeded to give Briseis the stink-eye.

Patroclus sighed. “Yeah, you’d better go finish your chores. But meet me back here when you’re done. I have to talk to you.”

Briseis flashed him a smile and curtsied sarcastically. “Yes, your Highness.”

Patroclus stuck out his tongue at her as she turned and bounced back to the servant line.

“Very mature, Pat,” she called over her shoulder.

He sighed again and stepped back into the shadows, leaning against the wall as he waited for her to finish her chores.

Achilles still occupied most of his thoughts. Briseis had proven to be a surprisingly good distraction, but with her gone, the reason he’d come to see her in the first place came crashing down on him again.

He needed to know more about Achilles. Telerias had passed away two years ago and there was no one else who knew as much as he did about mythology. No one except the librarians and Briseis, who spent almost all of her free time either swiping food or with her nose buried in a book, but the librarians probably wouldn’t believe him if he said twice, he’d seen Achilles out in the forest.

He saw Briseis coming back from the kitchens, a little skip in her step that he assumed meant she was done with her shift, plucking a grape from one of the baskets another servant was carrying when his back was turned and no one else was looking.

No one except Patroclus.

He sighed and shook his head.

“Hello again, Pat!” she greeted cheerily, ignoring his raised eyebrows. “Y’know, your father isn’t really as strict as you always make him out to be. I mean, he lets us talk, right? What other king would let his son talk to his servants?”

“Briseis,” Patroclus sighed, having given up on trying to stop her use of the ridiculous nickname long ago, “stop avoiding the issue.”

“What issue?” she asked, tilting her head innocently.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Patroclus grumbled. “Same thing as always. I saw you take grapes from the baskets, Briseis. How many times have I warned you what might happen if you get caught? My father might let us talk but if word gets out that his servants are taking from him –”

“It was _one_ grape, Pat,” Briseis groaned, exasperated.

“And it takes getting caught _one_ time for him to toss you in the dungeons.” Patroclus sighed. “Why are you still stealing anyway? It’s not like you’re not getting the same food as the rest of us.”

Briseis shrugged and flashed him a bright smile. “Force of habit. Plus, I’ve been doing this for years and I’ve never gotten caught. I’m good, you know.”

Patroclus sighed again and shook his head. “I’m just worried about you.”

Briseis’s expression softened and she kissed his cheek gently. “I know. You’re a good friend, Patroclus.”

Patroclus blushed and turned his face away to hide it. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, there’s something I need to ask you about, and you spend all your free time in the library, so I figured you’d be the best person to ask about this.”

Briseis looked at him expectantly. “About what?”

Patroclus hesitated, suddenly feeling very foolish. He was twenty-two now, after all, and when boys were twenty-two they were considered men. There was no time for myths and legends anymore.

But Briseis was his closest friend. She of all people wouldn’t judge him.

“I want to know about the legend of Achilles.”

Briseis’s eyebrows shot up. “Shouldn’t you ask the librarians? They probably know more about it than I do since they’re around those old books all the time.”

Patroclus shook his head. “No, you’re the one who loves mythology. The librarians are all scholars. Plus,” he added with a grin, “could you imagine the look on their faces if a grown man walked in there and asked about children’s stories?”

Briseis shrugged and leaned her weight on one leg. “You could say it’s for a friend’s child or something. I mean, we don’t have a storyteller anymore, so we’ve all had to make do. But it’s fine.” She grinned and tilted her chin up proudly. “I’d be happy to share my _extensive_ knowledge of children’s stories with you.”

Okay, maybe she would judge him a little.

“So, what specifically do you want to know?” she asked.

“Uh…I don’t know. Everything, I suppose.”

Briseis raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Okay, that’s a lot, and it’s going to take a while. Let’s go somewhere quieter. Um, one of the alcoves behind the kitchens. That way we can still be some of the first people to dinner, since as much as I respect and love you, Patroclus, I love food more. No offense.”

“It’s mutual,” Patroclus sniffed.

Briseis grinned and punched him in the arm. “Love you, Pat.”

She led Patroclus to the far alcove behind the kitchen, closest to the dining hall, and sat down across from Patroclus. “Okay,” she began. “There are a couple different legends, actually, since historians and storytellers all added slightly different things either to make it more interesting or to make it more ‘accurate.’” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means. It’s not like a myth can be accurate. Anyway, I’m not going to tell you all of them since that would take me until tomorrow morning and I also don’t actually remember all of them, but there are a few main ones that you should know if you want to be able to say you know the legend of Achilles.”

She began by telling the most well-known story of Achilles, the story Telerias had told where Achilles was born to a goddess and thus was half-human. Even as a child, there was brilliance and violence in his life. He did not take human lives, not yet, but he hunted. He raced. He wrestled. He was a golden child, besting the other boys at whatever he did. When he grew old enough to take a wife, he did, marrying a beautiful princess on Skyros whose hand no one else could even think to claim. He was like a god, for gods are untouchable.

Then she spoke of the Achilles of the ten long years of the Trojan War. He had led the Greeks against the city of Troy, crossing the sea with eleven hundred ships to crush the city, slaying hundreds of Trojans himself before the final murder of their royal family and the dashing of their baby’s head against the walls of the city. Some said he had killed a god during the war. He was like death, for death could touch anything.

But there were other stories.

There was a story of an Achilles who was not a half-human Greek warrior, but instead a warrior sent by the Gods, made of fire and wind and fury and gold. There was a story of an Achilles who was actually the goddess Athena in disguise. There was a story of an Achilles who did not actually fight, but came up with the battle strategies that ultimately ended with the destruction of the Trojan city and its people. Even in an age where only cowards hid behind in the tents, Achilles was celebrated for his brilliance.

In all of the stories, it was Achilles, the Greek hero. Achilles, _Aristos Achaion_. Achilles, the merciless killer.

He may have been half-human, but there was nothing human about him.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duties of the body aren't always the same as the duties of the heart.

 

 

Briseis and Patroclus ended up missing dinner. Briseis let out a huff of exasperation when they realized what time it was. “I guess I’ll be stealing my dinner tonight again.”

Patroclus had rounded on her. “No way, Briseis! We _just_ talked about this. We’ll go to the kitchens and see if there’s any more food left. They can’t refuse the prince,” he pointed out. “And if I say you’re with me, they can’t refuse you either.”

Briseis sighed but nodded. “Okay, if that makes you happier. Although, technically, you owe me, since I just told you all I know about Achilles.”

“Wait.”

Briseis turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “What now, Pat? I’m starving!”

“Sorry. You just, uh, you never talked about anything that happened after the war.”

Briseis shrugged. “What’s there to talk about? The war ended, the Greeks went home, and now the Greeks are here. Like, right here. Us. And the Trojans are all gone. Fled somewhere, I guess.”

Patroclus shook his head. “No, I’m talking about Achilles. What happened to Achilles after the war?”

“See, that’s what nobody knows since none of the books actually say anything definitive. Not that a myth can be definitive, but whatever. I’m sure you’ve heard old Telerias saying that no one saw him after the war ended, right?”

“Yes, and he also said that maybe Achilles was immortal and that he’s in the forest outside of the city.”

Briseis rolled her eyes, taking Patroclus’s hand and dragging him forward to the kitchens. “That’s a load of nonsense, and you know it. He was just trying to scare the children. It doesn’t make a good story if there’s no threat, right? Besides, he _also_ said that he’s never seen. He probably died or something, and the story that he survived was just, once again, to scare the kids and keep them close to their parents so they wouldn’t run off. Now, come and use your princely powers and get us some food.”

Patroclus knew Briseis was right. The Achilles he’d seen in the forest couldn’t _possibly_ be the Achilles in the old legends. They couldn’t be the same; it wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.

And yet, at the same time, it did.

 

 

Patroclus went back into the forest again early the next day, following the same path as he’d taken before to rabbit den. He had no idea whether or not Achilles came to the same place every day, but it seemed to be his best shot at seeing him again. He crouched down by the den and waited.

Half an hour passed. A butterfly flitted by, its bright yellow wings like flashes of sunlight in the shade of the trees. A black and white spot on each of its wings glared back at Patroclus like a great pair of eyes. Across the stream, a doe stepped out into the open, her steps delicate and deliberate. She made her cautious way over to a berry bush, stripping a few branches of fruit and leaves before a breeze swept through the woods, carrying Patroclus’s scent directly to her. Her ears perked, her neck straightened as her head swiveled around to face in Patroclus’s direction, and she darted back into the shadows.

Patroclus held his breath. Achilles was at home in the wilderness. He wondered if Achilles would be able to smell his scent too.

He sat still, hugging his knees to his chest, and after a few tense heartbeats, Achilles appeared.

But he hadn’t come to see Patroclus. He stooped by the side of the stream, focused on the water, his spear slightly raised in his right hand. Waiting.

Fishing, Patroclus thought distantly. He stayed crouched in the shadows, peering through a gap in the leaves of the bush in front of him. Then, suddenly, the spear in Achilles’s hand flashed as he drove it downwards. Patroclus hadn’t seen anything, but when the spear tip emerged again, it was embedded in the body of a fat, writhing fish, its scales flashing silver.

Slowly, without really knowing what he was doing, Patroclus stood. Achilles held the fish down and wrenched the spear from its body, laying it on the ground beside him as he drew a knife from its sheath at his side and began to deftly descale the fish.

Patroclus took a deep, shaky breath, and stepped forward, immediately stepping on a branch and snapping it with a resounding crack. He froze, his heart pounding.

Achilles looked up, almost casually. Patroclus realized with a thrill of fear that he’d known he was there all along, and swallowed nervously. The sane part of his mind told him that he should run, that he should get out of there as fast as he could, because whatever else Achilles might be, he was still a killer. He could take Patroclus out without a second thought.

But the other, slightly less sane part of his mind told him that this was what he had come here for. He had come back to see Achilles, because for whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to stay away, and it told him to take another step forward.

Patroclus had never really been what his father wanted, and there was no reason for that to change now.

He took a step forward.

Achilles watched him, catlike, for a moment, before he turned back to descaling the fish.

Patroclus let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Okay. Maybe he could get a little closer.

He took another few tense steps, easily crossing half the clearing without Achilles looking back up at him, but when he was a few feet away from his side of the stream, Achilles’s head snapped up, his penetrating green gaze focusing on Patroclus, his entire body stilling.

Patroclus swallowed hard. “Um, hello,” he said tentatively, his voice ridiculously high and squeaky. He stopped, clearing his throat before he started again. “I…I didn’t know if…um…I came here yesterday to ask you a question, and…you didn’t respond.”

Achilles was still staring at him. Patroclus almost blushed under the intensity.

“I was wondering why you let me see you.” The words came out all in a rush. “No one sees you. At least that’s what the legends say. No one sees you unless you want them to. So I…” He trailed off, ducking his head. “Sorry, I’m being rude. My name is Patroclus, son of Menoitius.”

Something flickered through the green eyes, but there was no response.

“I’m from Opus,” Patroclus continued. “It’s a city, just beyond the edge of the forest. But I’m sure you know about it. My father is the king. But that doesn’t make me a prince,” he added quickly, realizing how arrogant and self-important he sounded. “I’m nothing like what my father wants me to be. He wants me to be a warrior. Like you, I guess, if the legends are anything to go by. But I don’t want to be a warrior. I’m too small.” He looked down on himself and huffed a laugh. “It’s okay, though. I’m a healer. We need those too.” He paused. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I guess…I don’t know. I feel like…I feel like I can trust you.”

Slowly, not wanting to startle Achilles, he sat down. “Do you…do you want to talk about yourself? I’ve said a lot already.”

He waited, but Achilles just sat there staring at him, not making a sound.

“Um. Okay, I guess I’ll just…keep talking then.” He hesitated to see if Achilles would object, but once again, there was no reaction, so he starting speaking again. He spoke of the city, avoiding details such as its layout and security, but elaborating on the sounds, smells, and sights. He told of the great warrior Arasseon and his rivalry with Ajax, of the fruits and vegetables that were sold on the sides of the streets, of his favorite places to go to watch the sunsets.

Achilles listened with rapt attention, his eyes on Patroclus’s face, searching, wondering. The fish lay, descaled and limp, forgotten, in front of him.

Patroclus stopped talking when the sun was well in the sky. Achilles was still watching him, unmoving as stone. The sun cast a sharp shadow on half his face, illuminating the mountains and hollowing the valleys of his muscles. Briefly, Patroclus’s thoughts flashed to the marble statues in his father’s halls.

“I have to go,” he said presently, standing and dusting himself off. “My…my father is going to be looking for me.” He hesitated. “I’ll try to come back tomorrow, if…if you want to see me again.”

Achilles, still, had no reaction. Hesitantly, Patroclus turned and walked back towards the city, glancing back over his shoulder as he reached the edge of the clearing to see Achilles still unmoved, watching him.

 

 

Polarius was waiting for him when he got back to the castle, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, is foot tapping the ground impatiently. “Patroclus!” he thundered as soon as he walked in the door, grabbing him roughly by the arm and hauling him towards the medical building. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Automedon came back from the chariot race yesterday with a broken leg, says another chariot crashed into him. Said I’d send you to him, only for no one to turn up! Can you imagine how that makes me look? He was waiting for hours!”

Patroclus winced. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered.

“Not to mention your father,” Polarius plowed on with a scowl. “He’s been looking for you as well. Saying something about you missing dinner yesterday. It’s against protocol, you know, for a prince to be missing dinner.”

Patroclus winced again, praying his father wouldn’t blame Briseis.

Polarius jerked him roughly into one of the hallways and then thrust him into a room on the left, where Automedon, Opus’s best charioteer, lay on the bed with his leg in a cast.

“Hey, Patroclus,” he greeted, remarkably cheerfully for a man who’s just had his leg broken.

“Hello,” Patroclus mumbled, red-cheeked with shame. “Um. Sorry for neglecting my duties.”

Automedon waved him off. “Don’t trouble yourself. Polarius here had me patched up quite nicely.”

Patroclus flinched as Polarius sent a glare in his direction before turning back to the charioteer.

“My apologies for his negligence,” Polarius rumbled with a bow. “I have assigned him to take care of you until you can return home.”

“Ah, I’m fine, old man,” Automedon laughed. “Honestly, I could go home now.”

“We must monitor the swelling,” Polarius protested, his hands fluttering comically in concern as Automedon tried to sit up. “It was set correctly, but it was broken quite badly and I must be sure that it will heal well before I can send you home. It would not do for you to come back here months later complaining of pain in your leg.”

Automedon chuckled, lying back down compliantly. “Alright, alright. Only because I respect you, Polarius.” He turned to Patroclus. “As for you, I’m fine now. You can come back to check on me later if it’ll make you feel better, but seeing as your father’s looking for you, I think you should go see him first.”

“His father can wait,” Polarius snapped. “You’re his patient. Menoitius cannot rule a city if there are no people left alive to rule.”

“I’m hardly on my deathbed,” Automedon laughed. “And as I just said, I’m his patient. I told him I’m fine and don’t need looking after at this moment. He’s free to go.”

Polarius struggled to think of a reply but couldn’t, and so with much grumbling, he turned and let Patroclus out the door.

 

 

King Menoitius was not in a much better mood than Polarius was when Patroclus found him.

“Son!” he bellowed from across the hall where he was seated at a long table with some of his commanders, poring over several large sheets of parchment. Patroclus flinched.

“Leave us,” he ordered his commanders, who immediately stood and filed past Patroclus out of the room. The door shut with a loud bang behind them, and Patroclus’s heart thumped in his throat.

“Come here, Patroclus.”

Patroclus obeyed, his palms sweating. Skipping dinner was not in itself a terrible crime; in fact, others were often happy about it since it meant more food for them. But if you were the son of a king and expected to attend, it was another matter entirely. If a king could not control his own son, how would he be expected to control his people?

His father motioned for him to sit in a chair across from him and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.

“Would you care to explain to me why you were not present at dinner yesterday?”

Patroclus gulped. “I…I got distracted. I lost track of the time.”

Menoitius was not appeased. “Distracted with _what_?”

“I, uh, reading. On medicine. Polarius told me about some different herbs that other places use, and I was reading up on it and forgot about dinner.”

Menoitius frowned and did not seem convinced.

But he simply said, “Do not let it happen again.”

Patroclus knew he was dismissed. He stood and bowed slightly before retreating from the room.

 

He went to see Achilles again the next morning as he had promised, and this time Achilles was waiting for him.

As soon as he saw Achilles, Patroclus felt a smile spread across his face. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t question it. Eagerly, he approached the stream, and when he reached the edge, Achilles turned and walked to a tree, sitting down cross-legged at its base.

The tree was a few yards away. Too far for Patroclus to talk at a normal volume and still have Achilles hear what he was going to say.

“Am I supposed to follow you?” Patroclus asked.

Achilles just looked at him.

“That’s all I’m going to get out of you, I suppose,” Patroclus muttered to himself, before wading cautiously across the stream and joining Achilles under the shade of the tree.

“Do you want to talk today?” Patroclus asked as he sat down, a respectable distance from Achilles but closer than he’d ever been to him. Achilles said nothing, so Patroclus began to speak.

He talked about the people in his life, his father, his mother, his mentor, the charioteer who he still had to check on when he got back, and Briseis. Achilles tilted his head ever so slightly when he mentioned Briseis, so he talked about her more. He spoke of her scattering of freckles across glowing olive skin, the one lock of shoulder-length brown hair that she could never get to stay in place, the dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled, the dash of green in her hazel eyes. He spoke of the utter joy and freedom with which she lived, the way she threw back her head when she laughed, the ease with which she understood him.

“I don’t love her, though,” Patroclus said finally. “Not in that way. Never in that way. I think maybe, in a different world, I would. But not here. Here, she’s my sister and my best friend.”

 

 

Patroclus saw Achilles every day for the next two weeks. Achilles never spoke, so Patroclus just talked about his own life.

He talked for hours, but he felt like he could talk more. He felt at home with Achilles in a way he had never felt before, even with the strange way that he stared with those emerald green eyes, the strange way that he sat, still like a statue, the strange way that he communicated without ever speaking.

Because he understood Achilles now. He could see the emotions behind the cold mask.

If Patroclus had looked forward to going into the forest before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now. A small, dim part of his mind said it was like he was sneaking a way to see a secret lover.

Patroclus didn’t try to convince himself otherwise.

 

 

On the fifteenth day, Briseis caught him in the lower levels of the city as he was returning from the forest, her face filled with panic until she saw him.

“Patroclus!” She flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest. “Oh, Pat, I was so worried about you!”

Alarmed and confused, Patroclus pried her arms off of him so he could see her. “What are you talking about? I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Patroclus,” Briseis scolded, her voice shaking. “I know where you’ve been. I know you’ve been in the forest.”

Patroclus’s heart missed a beat. If she knew he was in the forest, did she know why he was there?

But the next thing she said calmed his fears. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing there every day for the past two weeks, but you can’t go there anymore. Promise me.”

Well, it calmed him somewhat.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean, I can’t go back to the forest?”

Briseis looked confused, and then her eyes widened with comprehension. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, you don’t know yet. I thought Menoitius already told you.” She pulled him into a small side street. “I’m not supposed to know,” she whispered. “They haven’t told everyone else yet either, and I think they’re still trying to figure out what to do since a bunch of people need to go there for herbs and hunting and all sorts of stuff. But…I overheard your father talking to his commanders about it.”

“About what?” Patroclus pressed. “Just get to the point already.”

Briseis lowered her voice. “There have been murders in the woods,” she hissed. “Just peasants, before, but now it’s more important people too. You know Clysonymus?”

Patroclus made a face. “Of course I know him, I hate him.” He was a spoiled boy and a bully, looking for every opportunity to put down people he deemed lesser than him, even if they happened to be a king’s son. He’d made advances on Briseis before, only stopping when Patroclus found them and threatened to tell his father about it.

Briseis winced. “I know, but…he’s dead.”

“What?” Patroclus gasped. “How?”

“The murders in the woods. He was the latest one. And he’s a commander’s son, don’t you forget. Even he wasn’t protected by that.” Briseis sighed. “Look, last I heard they weren’t sure that it was anything serious. They didn’t know whether or not the murders were connected. But they’ve been asking around and everyone who was killed happened to have blonde hair and green eyes. And I know that’s not you, Pat, I mean look at you. You’re exactly the opposite. But still…I’m worried about you. And who knows if they’ll branch out and start killing anyone.” She took his hand and gripped it tightly. “Promise me you won’t go back out there.”

“I promise,” Patroclus said.

But his words were hollow.

Forget his own safety.

He needed to warn Achilles.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But sometimes, duties of the body and duties of the heart are the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some violence in this chapter, so please be aware of this before you start reading! I'll put a short summary of this chapter at the very bottom in case violence isn't your thing but you still want to know what's going on.

 

 

It was hard to get away from Briseis. She stayed with him the rest of the morning, dragging him to breakfast, practically clinging to him, constantly finding things that she needed his help with, then dragging him to lunch.

It was as if she knew.

He snuck away mid-afternoon when she was called to buy a pig from one of the farmers for dinner. _I’m sorry_ , he thought as he ducked into the shadows and crept away from where she was talking with the other servant. _Just this once, I have to break my promise to you. I just need to warn him._

Once he was out of sight, he broke into a run.

 

Patroclus ran through the woods as fast as his legs could carry him, heedless of the noise he was making or the trail he was leaving. Getting to Achilles was the only thing on his mind. The trees next to the path passed by in a blur, his feet flashing in front of him.

Faster. He had to go faster.

His lungs were burning as he gasped for air, sweat pouring down his face and back. _Achilles_ , he thought. _Achilles, Achilles, Achilles._ He flew over a fallen tree in his path, his feet hitting the ground hard. He stumbled, hands reaching out to catch himself. There was a sting of pain on both his palms; distantly, he was aware that he had cut them. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Achilles.

_Get up. Get up now._

He scrambled to his feet, stumbling again in exhaustion but forcing himself upright. His muscles ached and his lungs felt like they were on fire. His entire body was slick with sweat.

_Keep running._

That’s when the screaming began.

Fear shot through him. It wasn’t Achilles. It couldn’t be Achilles; Achilles never made a sound. But somewhere, someone was getting hurt, or worse.

Patroclus cursed. He was a healer. He couldn’t just let it go.

He turned right off the path in the direction of the screams, which sounded only a few hundred meters away, slowing to a walk to catch his breath as well as to lessen the chance of him tripping over something or running into whoever else was in these woods.

The screaming stopped.

Patroclus’s heart skipped a beat. He was too late.

But he could still catch whoever had done it. If he did, he could tell his father, who would send soldiers out to catch them. Forget the consequences; his father would be furious, but he wouldn’t betray Briseis and the woods around Opus would be safe. Achilles would be safe.

He saw a flicker of movement further ahead and slowed down, crouching down and creeping forward to peer between the branches of a bush.

He only needed to see what the murderer looked like. That was all he needed.

But that was not all he saw.

His eyes widened in horror as he saw a golden-haired young man lying dead on the ground, multiple slash and puncture wounds covering his body and his throat neatly cut open, pouring blood into a goblet that a cloaked man was holding out.

“Is it him, Hector?” he heard another cloaked man say from where he was squatted at the golden-haired man’s feet. Four horses stood behind them, calmly nibbling at the grass.

Four horses.

Four men.

And a group of a dozen more crouched down next to them.

“I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough,” the first cloaked man – Hector – answered. There was a pause. “Where is Menelaus?”

“He heard something in the woods. He’s going to check it out. Probably just a rabbit or something, but either way we could use the food.”

“Is he with Paris?”

“No, I’m here.” A third man appeared from the bushes behind the second cloaked man with a scowl. “Thank the Gods he wasn’t with me; I was taking a piss. And you, Agamemnon, you could be helping my brother instead of just sitting on your ass like you do all day. We do need four cups, you know, and Hector has only got two hands.”

Agamemnon stood with a snarl. “Go fuck yourself, Paris,” he spat.

Paris ignored him as Hector took a sip from the goblet. Patroclus gagged. “Well? Is it him? Are we to become gods today?”

Hector licked his lips, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He smacked his lips thoughtfully. “It’s quite sweet, you know,” he mused, a glint in his dark eyes. “But no, it’s not Achilles.”

Patroclus gasped. Suddenly, the murders made sense. These men were looking for Achilles; they must also know the legends, know what kind of a warrior he was. And if they believed that Achilles – his Achilles – was the same as the one in the legends and were drinking the blood of young men who fit his descriptions in the myths, they must believe that the blood of Achilles had power.

He was too late to save this man. But he could still get to Achilles before they did.

He stood and turned, heart pounding in fear as he crept back towards the path, breaking into a run as soon as he reached it.

He didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind him until it was too late.

 

 

Something struck him from behind, propelling him forward and onto the ground. Pain exploded in his shoulder, and when he reached back with his other hand, he felt a wooden shaft.

An arrow.

He’d been hit with an arrow.

No one used arrows except cowards. Patroclus felt anger rising in him. He was getting attacked by _cowards._ And what was worse, people were getting _murdered_ by these cowards. _Achilles_ was being tracked by these cowards.

No.

Not anymore.

Not on his watch.

Patroclus gritted his teeth, wrenching his knife from its sheath with his left hand; his right hand would be useless until his shoulder healed. He pushed himself to his feet to face his attacker, slashing his knife in front of him.

The man who had hit him easily leapt out of the way with a smirk, putting his bow back over his shoulder almost casually. “Spirited, are we? What’s a scrawny boy like you doing in my woods?”

“These are Opus’s woods,” Patroclus spat. “Get out.”

The man’s grin widened as he drew a knife from his belt. “I have a sword,” he drawled, “but if you really want to fight me, I want to make it a fair fight. Here, I’ll even let you switch knives with me so you have the longer one.”

“Just get out,” Patroclus snarled. “I know what you’ve done. I know you’ve murdered people, and I know who you’re looking for. If you don’t leave, I’ll have all the soldiers in here looking for you until you’re dead or you surrender.”

“Ooh, making threats now!” the man chuckled. “You claim to be able to have _all_ the soldiers of Opus in here looking for me. Now who except the king can do that? And you’re no king.”

Anger flared. “I’m the king’s son, you nuthead,” Patroclus spat.

Menelaus smirked. “Only a child spews such insults.”

Patroclus gritted his teeth. “Get _out_.”

“Make me, dear prince.” He bowed mockingly.

That was it. Patroclus let out a yell, charging forward at the other man. He may be a healer, but he had been taught to fight, even if he wasn’t strong enough to be what his father wanted him to be. He could make up for it with his quickness and agility.

And he had honor. He wouldn’t let himself be mocked by a killer.

He ducked under Menelaus’s knife and drove his own upwards, expecting to find the other man’s side, but his knife struck empty air. Patroclus spun around, barely getting his knife up in time to parry the other man’s strike. He cursed; Menelaus wasn’t particularly large, but he was strong, and his fighting arm was in perfectly good condition.

“You’re pretty good for your size,” Menelaus commented, leaping away before coming back in for another attack. His knife caught Patroclus just under his ribs, drawing blood.

Patroclus gasped in pain but remained upright. That was stupid. He should have known what Menelaus was going to do, but his anger had blinded him. He needed to clear his head.

Menelaus grinned.

Patroclus snarled and charged. He drove his knife downwards at Menelaus’s leg, aiming to cripple, but the man easily sidestepped him and hit him on the back of his head with the butt of his knife, knocking him onto the ground. He felt a flare of agony as the arrow was yanked out of his shoulder, and screamed.

A moment later, a rough hand knotted its fingers in his hair and wrenched him upright; Patroclus let out a cry of pain, and Menelaus held a knife to his throat.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

Patroclus swallowed, feeling the bob of his throat against the blade of the knife. His head pounded where it had been struck, and blood was running freely down his right arm.

“ _Who are you_?” the man repeated, pressing the knife harder against Patroclus. Patroclus felt a warm trickle of blood run down his neck.

“Patroclus Menotiades,” he answered. Calmly. Proudly. Not betraying any fear.

“Well, Patroclus Menotiades,” the man murmured, “my brother and I try to avoid killing innocents when we can, but I’m afraid we’ll have to make an exception here.” He grinned cruelly. “You see, we really can’t have you running back to Opus and telling your father about us, can we?”

Patroclus felt a chill run down his spine.

“Menelaus!”

A voice rang out, and a moment later Agamemnon stepped out from the underbrush.

The knife vanished from his throat, but Menelaus didn’t put him down.

“Yes, brother? Was it him?”

Agamemnon shook his head. “No. I just dumped the body.”

Menelaus smirked. “Doesn’t matter. This boy tells me he knows who we’re looking for. Perhaps he’s seen him. Perhaps he can tell us where he is.”

Patroclus’s heart skipped a beat.

Agamemnon looked thoughtful. “Yes, perhaps…we should bring him back to Paris. He’ll want to deal with him himself.”

A moment later, Menelaus released his hair and struck him hard on the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. He fell soundlessly, the world around him turning to black.

 

 

The first thing he became aware of when he woke was the pounding in his head. The second thing was that he was tightly bound to a tree. The third was that Paris was standing in front of him, his face cold and impassive.

“Good, you’re awake. Menelaus tells me you know where Achilles is,” he drawled.

Patroclus scowled. “I don’t know anything,” he muttered.

Paris knelt in front of him and tilted his chin up with the tip of a knife, looking over his face carelessly before flicking the knife upwards, flipping it in the air once and returning it to its sheath. It left a shallow cut on Patroclus’s chin. “Hm. Sorry, I don’t believe you.”

Patroclus met his gaze evenly. “I don’t have anything to tell you,” he said.

Paris frowned. “You know, I could have my brother here force you to tell the truth. He’s a spellcaster. He could make you spill all your little secrets. But what would be the fun in that? Now, Patroclus, why don’t you just tell me where to find Achilles, and we’ll let you go. How does that sound?”

Patroclus remained silent.

“Fine, then. I apologize for doing this, but you see, we’re after something, and right now you’re the only one who can tell us anything, and you’re not cooperating.” He ripped open the front of Patroclus’s chiton and drew his knife again, pressing it against his chest until a bead of blood welled up. “Last chance.”

Patroclus gritted his teeth, determined not to say anything.

Paris gave him a mockingly pitying smile. “I’m sorry, Patroclus. You leave me no choice.” He slashed the knife downwards, opening up a long, gaping wound in Patroclus’s chest.

Patroclus let out a cry of pain as warm blood spilled down his front, pooling into his lap.

“Anything, dear Patroclus?” Paris crooned. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“Yeah. Go fuck yourself,” Patroclus hissed.

Anger sparked in Paris’s eyes and he cut into Patroclus’s flesh again. Fresh blood spilled, and Patroclus screamed.

“Next one goes between your ribs,” Paris said, dangerously calm. “Not deep enough to kill you, of course, we still need you. But enough to cripple you. Unless you talk. It’s going to hurt, you know. Hm. I can’t _imagine_ how much pain you must be in right now…but you still have enough blood left in you for a few more good cuts. You were a fighter, Menelaus told me. And I can keep going with this. I can keep cutting you, again and again and again, unless you tell me where Achilles is. What do you say?”

Patroclus spat in his face.

Paris sighed, pulling out a cloth from where it was tucked into his belt and wiping off his face. “Very well.” He put the knife to Patroclus’s side, feeling for the dips of soft flesh between ridges of hard bone, and began to press inwards with excruciating slowness.

Patroclus hissed as the knife began to drive inwards, and then Menelaus let out a cry of alarm.

“Paris! It’s him!”

Paris wrenched the knife out of Patroclus’s side; Patroclus let out a cry of pain. A moment later, there was a flash of silver as Menelaus, Agamemnon, and the dozen men behind them drew their swords, and Achilles stepped out from the trees.

Paris turned back to Patroclus with a grin. “Hm. Seems like we didn’t need you after all. We can dispose of you now.” He drew back his arm, the knife glinting, and then a man screamed.

Paris froze. The man was still standing when Paris turned to face him, but his eyes were widening in shock as he looked down at the blood gushing from a gaping hole in his chest. A moment later, his sword clattered to the ground from nerveless fingers and he sank to his knees. Achilles spun where he stood, golden hair flying out behind him, and launched his spear at the next man advancing. It struck him in the chest, sending him flying backwards and pinning him against a tree. Patroclus was near enough to know it had pierced his heart. He died without a sound.

Agamemnon let out a furious cry and charged at Achilles. The ten other men still remaining followed his charge, but Achilles avoided them nimbly, ducking out of the way of Agamemnon’s downward strike and leaping up to the next man, grabbing his sword as he did so, wrenching it out of the man’s hand and beheading him in one smooth motion. The other men faltered.

Menelaus did not. He approached Achilles, clearly meaning to circle him and face him one-on-one, but Achilles had no such intention. He leapt up above the other man, driving his sword downwards. Menelaus avoided death by a hair, throwing himself out of the way, and Achilles turned towards Patroclus.

And Paris.

But there were eleven men between Achilles and Paris, twelve if Hector got involved. He wouldn’t make it.

But it was Achilles. Patroclus should have known better.

One man fell back with his chest split open and another two were dead before he hit the ground.  Another man was charging Achilles from behind.

“Look out!” Patroclus yelled, but he didn’t need to. Even as he opened his mouth in warning, Achilles spun, throwing the sword and piercing the other man just below his sternum. It was a wonder that he did not fall immediately; he staggered backwards, bug-eyed in shock, as blood began to drip out of his open mouth.

It was a fatal wound, but he would die slowly.

Achilles had already turned his back on the man and leapt up, ripping his spear from where it was still impaled in the man and the tree behind him. He spun it, knocking out two of the advancing men effortlessly.

Achilles turned the spear on Agamemnon who was advancing next, striking with the speed of a snake and catching his sword arm. Blood sprayed and Agamemnon let out a howl of pain. Patroclus saw the white of bone, and he fell back.

Now it was four versus one; Agamemnon was useless with his mangled sword arm.

“That’s my brother!” Menelaus roared, leaping. “Stop! He’s mine!” He had come between Achilles and Patroclus. The remaining three men stepped back with nothing short of relief; Achilles had killed nine of them in the span of a few minutes and none of them wanted to be next.

Achilles turned with a snarl. His eyes caught Patroclus’s, and Patroclus felt a thrill of fear at the utter fury in the green depths.

Then the fight was on.

They circled each other, Achilles catlike and calm, calculated despite his anger, Menelaus’s movements fueled by rage alone. Patroclus could see it in the way his limbs shook, the way he breathed, the way he spat curses at Achilles despite how Patroclus knew he wanted his blood.

Achilles, as ever, was silent.

Menelaus struck first, impatient and driven by a thirst for vengeance, his movements messy and aggressive.

Achilles knew this. He sidestepped easily, striking out with his spear and missing impaling Menelaus’s wrist only because he stumbled in the haze of his anger. He leapt behind him, striking out again, but Menelaus rolled out of the way and lashed out with his sword, hitting the spear and breaking off the tip.

Patroclus gasped. “No!”

But Achilles was unfazed. As Menelaus scrambled to his feet, Achilles took a sword from one of the fallen men and parried Menelaus’s strike easily, pushing upwards against him and throwing him off balance. He stumbled backwards and fell, his sword clattering to the ground. Achilles stood over him, raising his sword to deliver the killing strike.

“Stop.”

Paris, who had been watching the fight in some kind of astonished stupor, had come to his senses and was holding his knife to Patroclus’s throat. “Stop, or he dies.”

Achilles froze, his eyes fixed on Patroclus’s face.

A wicked grin spread itself across Paris’s face. “Ah, so you _do_ have a weakness. And it just so happens to be a human! Well, Achilles, if you want your friend to live, you will drop your weapon and surrender to us. We’ll kill you, of course, but you knew that. Do you care enough about your friend to do this? Do you care enough to give your life for his?”

Achilles did not move.

Paris’s grin widened. “Are you sure, Achilles? I am not lying to you. Drop your weapon and surrender, and we let him go free. Or not, and your friend dies.”

“Achilles, don’t!” Patroclus yelled, and Paris pressed the knife harder against his throat.

Just then, Menelaus whipped his sword upwards, trying to slice open Achilles’s belly. Achilles leapt backwards and Menelaus scrambled to his feet with a snarl.

“Drop your weapon, Achilles,” Paris drawled. “Or I _will_ slit his throat.” He pressed harder, and blood welled. “We all know you can fight your way out of this if you really want to. But then he’ll die thinking you didn’t care about him. Or, you could save his life. As I said, give your life for his. Are you willing to do that? Just drop your weapon, and we’ll set him free.”

“Achilles, no! They’ll kill you!” Patroclus yelled.

Achilles looked at Paris, then back at Patroclus, then back at Paris, then back at Patroclus.

He held his gaze.

Achilles’s sword fell.

 

 

 

 

 Summary: Patroclus finds it difficult to get away from Briseis since she seems to want to keep him in sight, but he manages to sneak away around mid-afternoon. He runs through the forest to try to get to the rabbit den to see Achilles and warn him about the murderers in the woods, but he hears someone screaming and as a healer, feels like it's his duty to help. He turns off the path and sees Hector, Paris, Agamemnon, and a dozen other men gathered around someone who resembles the other murder victims (i.e. blonde hair and green eyes). This man is already dead by the time Patroclus gets there, and through eavesdropping on what Hector and the others are saying, Patroclus learns that they are looking for Achilles and think that drinking Achilles's blood will give them immortality. Patroclus turns and runs back to try and find Achilles, but Menelaus and Agamemnon find him and capture him. They bring him to Paris who tries to force him to tell where Achilles is, but Patroclus refuses. Achilles appears and easily fights off all the men who try to attack him and is about to kill Menelaus when Paris tells him to drop his sword and surrender or else Patroclus dies ("give your life for his"). Achilles surrenders.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everything happens for a reason." That's the shittiest thing you can say to someone who just gave their life for you. But sometimes, in some very special cases, it's true.

 

 

“ _No_!” Patroclus screamed.

“Hush,” Paris crooned, standing and turning back to Achilles. “Wonderful, Achilles. Really, really wonderful. Now of course I can’t set him free right _now_ , he’d be more trouble than anything trying to save you and whatnot. So we’ll kill you first and get what we need, then we’ll set him free. Understand?” He looked at Menelaus. “Restrain that creature.”

Menelaus turned his cold eyes on Achilles. “Gladly, if you will attend to my brother. He needs medical attention.”

Paris smirked. “Anything for the mighty Menelaus.” He stepped away from Patroclus and headed to where Agamemnon sat on the ground leaning against a tree, moaning and cradling his wounded arm against his chest.

But as soon as Paris was a few yards away, Achilles moved. He darted forward, gripping Menelaus’s arm and twisting it while kneeing him hard in the chest. Menelaus doubled over, wheezing, his sword slipping from his fingers as Achilles twisted his arm harder. He caught the sword before it hit the ground, spun, and drove it into Menelaus’s back until the tip emerged from his front. Then, with a sickening squelch, he wrenched it out and leapt to defend Patroclus, all before Paris had turned and run a few steps.

“Brother!”

Agamemnon let out a cry of anguish and struggled to his feet, but he had lost a lot of blood and stumbled, falling to his knees. The three remaining men of the original dozen scattered, one on foot in the opposite direction from which Achilles had appeared, the other two each grabbing a horse and galloping away into the forest. Achilles had just killed their strongest fighter without even blinking. They stood no chance against him, and they knew it.

Paris looked panicked. Now, Achilles stood between him and Patroclus. Achilles crouched down with a snarl, holding the sword out in front of him.

The message was clear.

“Hector.” Paris’s voice was quiet and shook ever so slightly. His eyes darted to where Menelaus lay dead on the ground. “Hector, get us out of here.”

Hector snapped his fingers twice, and the two remaining horses snorted, tossing their heads and trotting over to him. “Paris,” he said quietly.

“No!” Agamemnon cried out again. “No, don’t leave me here!” He had gotten back to his feet and staggered forward a few steps before he stumbled again with a cry.

Paris ignored him. He took a step back, which Achilles matched with a step forward. Paris took another step back.

Achilles charged.

Paris turned and fled.

Paris and Hector leapt onto their horses and kicked them forward, Paris just missing losing his head to Achilles’s sword. He let out a cry of terror as his horse took off running, but even on horses they had no chance of outrunning Achilles and his spear.

At least, that’s what Patroclus thought.

Their horses moved faster than Patroclus thought possible, their hooves kicking up a whirlwind of dirt and grass and covering ten times more ground with one stride than any ordinary horse. Achilles only stopped at the edge of the clearing because Agamemnon was still there. Still too close to Patroclus.

He turned to Agamemnon, spinning Menelaus’s sword easily in his hand. A deadly foreshadowing of what he could do, what he would do, to Agamemnon for hurting Patroclus.

Agamemnon scrambled to his feet, holding his uninjured arm out in front of him, hand clenched in a fist. He knew he was going to die, but he was still a Greek. He wanted to die honorably, with a fight. Paris and Hector might have fled like cowards and Menelaus may have shot Patroclus like one, but Agamemnon wanted to believe he was better than that.

Achilles stalked forward, catlike, eyes glinting.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said. “Achilles, please.” He had lost too much blood. His vision was starting to get fuzzy and even the effort of speaking caused his head to swim. And blood was still running freely from his wounds.

Achilles took another step forward, and Agamemnon took another step back.

“Achilles,” Patroclus gasped out.

Achilles turned, his eyes falling on the blood covering Patroclus’s body. He glanced back at Agamemnon as if asking a question.

_Do I spare his life, even though he hurt you?_

“Don’t kill him,” Patroclus managed, squeezing his eyes shut. The adrenaline that had numbed him before was beginning to wear off and the pain was catching up to him; his shoulder and chest throbbed. “Achilles, you’re not –” He broke off. _You’re not a killer_ , he wanted to say, but that was not true. Killing was what Achilles did. He was _Aristos Achaion_ in an age of battle; what else could he do?

“You’re better than that,” he said instead. Agamemnon was unarmed. There was little he could have done against Achilles even with a weapon, but without a weapon, he was just waiting to be killed. “Achilles, please.” His voice broke on the last word as pain shot through his chest; immediately, Achilles was at his side, deftly cutting through his bonds with the sword. Achilles picked Patroclus up in his arms and Patroclus leaned into him. He suddenly wanted to touch Achilles, to feel his skin against his own as pain rushed through his body, but Achilles had positioned him so there was a layer of cloth between them. Still, his scent filled Patroclus’s nostrils. Sandalwood and pomegranate. A part of Patroclus tucked that away in the corner of his mind.

Achilles, still holding Patroclus to his chest, turned to face Agamemnon. The message was clear.

_Run._

Agamemnon ran.

 

 

Achilles carried Patroclus through the trees, leaping across a small brook and climbing easily up a mountain of rocks until they reached a curtain of moss and lichen. Achilles nudged it aside with his shoulder, revealing a small, cool cave lined with furs and straw, a small fire surrounded by stones burning in the back, its smoke rising into a crack on the cave roof. He settled Patroclus down on what looked like a deer pelt, positioning him so his back was against the wall of the cave.

Patroclus looked around wearily, his head swimming with the amount of blood he had lost. “Is this where you live?”

Achilles paused in where he was rummaging through a small deerskin pack to meet his eyes.

“Oh,” Patroclus said. It was more like a sigh. “It’s nice.”

Achilles turned back to his pack, pulling out several long strips of cloth as well as a jug whose contents Patroclus couldn’t see. He brought both back to Patroclus, setting them down before carefully removing Patroclus’s chiton from his shoulders to better expose the wounds. He ran a careful eye over him, the corners of his mouth tugging downwards; the wounds on Patroclus’s chest had mainly stopped bleeding, but the one in Patroclus’s side and on his shoulder were still bleeding quite heavily.

Achilles reached over and pulled out two strips of cloth, folding them deftly and neatly into squares. He pressed one to the wound on Patroclus’s side and the other to the wound on his shoulder, being careful not to touch his skin. He met Patroclus’s gaze.

 _Stop the bleeding_ , Patroclus’s brain told him belatedly. _Hold down the cloth._ He blamed the blood loss for not realizing more quickly what he should do. He reached up with his left hand and pressed it against the cloth on his right shoulder, reaching for Achilles, wanting to see if the air would spark around them when they touched, but Achilles’s fingers danced out of the way with ease.

There was nothing he could do about the wound on his side.

“My other arm is useless,” he said blearily. “I won’t be able to move it much until it’s healed.”

Achilles frowned again, taking another strip of cloth and wrapping it around Patroclus’s chest, tying it over the folded cloth to secure it into place. Satisfied that it was keeping pressure on the wound, he turned and ran out of the cave, grabbing a large stone bowl along the way.

Patroclus sat, waiting for Achilles to return. He took his hand off of his shoulder carefully as he leaned back against the wall, hoping the pressure of the wall would be able to hold the cloth in place. With his now free hand, he pulled the lid off of the jug Achilles had brought out and picked it up, taking a cautious sniff. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, figuring it was some kind of medicine to prevent infection, but he had no idea what it was. Perhaps, wherever Achilles was from, he had brought it with him. He set it back down and leaned his head back against the wall of the cave, closing his eyes as his vision swam.

While he was contemplating what he was going to do with himself and trying not to think about the pain radiating from his wounds, Achilles returned holding a honeycomb, a few aloe vera leaves, and the stone bowl, now filled with clear water. He sat down cross-legged in front of Patroclus, wadding up one of the strands of cloth and dipping it in the water.

 _Washing the wound_ , Patroclus thought dimly. Achilles squeezed the excess water out of the cloth and touched it gently to one of the wounds on Patroclus’s chest. Patroclus hissed; the water was cold, and it stung. But once the initial shock wore off, he found that it soothed the pain better than the warm water he and the other Opus healers used, and he barely felt the cut on his neck when Achilles was finished.

When Achilles was done washing the blood off of Patroclus’s neck and chest, he touched the cloth covering his right shoulder gently, indicating that he should lean forward. Patroclus obeyed, removing his hand from his shoulder so Achilles could wash the wound. He winced when the cold water hit him again but shook his head when Achilles stopped in what Patroclus assumed was concern.

“No. Keep going. It’s cold, that’s all.”

Achilles watched him for another few moments before he went back to tend to Patroclus’s shoulder, being careful to only let the water run through the wound instead of rubbing the cloth against it to clean it. It still stung even with the cold, but Patroclus gritted his teeth.

He then untied the bandage on Patroclus’s side, slowly removing the cloth to avoid ripping off any preliminary scabs that had formed. There was no need; blood still ran freely from the wound.

“Damn,” Patroclus murmured. Achilles pressed the cloth back onto the wound while he fetched a fresh cloth and dipped it into the bowl of water. Then, he carefully replaced the old cloth with the fresh one, his fingers slipping away as Patroclus moved to hold it there on his own.

Achilles poured some of the contents of the jar onto a fresh cloth and dabbed it onto the wounds on Patroclus’s chest. He winced and sucked in a harsh breath; it burned.

“What _is_ this?” he demanded. Achilles jerked backwards, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“No no no, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Patroclus said quickly. “Keep going. I just…I’m Opus’s healer. I should know what all these healing things are, but I have no idea what it is. Is it a plant? Does it grow in these forests?”

Achilles looked away.

 _No. Not from here._ “Keep going,” Patroclus said again. “I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

That was a lie, and they both knew it. But neither of them said anything about it. Patroclus bit down on his cheek as Achilles dabbed the cloth onto the wound on his shoulder, hissing in pain but refusing to let Achilles stop. He was relieved when Achilles finished and brought forward the aloe vera.

“Cooling and soothes inflammation,” he said immediately.

Achilles’s gaze flashed to his face. Surprise? No, the look behind his eyes was different. Approval, then?

“How do you know this?” Patroclus asked, as Achilles began squeezing the gel-like substance from inside the plump leaves and applying it to his wounds. “You’re a warrior, not a healer. Not that you can’t be both, but that’s just _not fair_ , that you can be a great warrior _and_ a great healer. You’re just…” He trailed off as he saw Achilles looking at him in what had to be amusement. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

And he did, he stopped talking, but the cooling feeling of the aloe vera on his angry skin soothed his pain, and his eyes couldn’t get enough Achilles. Achilles’s elegant, deft fingers smoothing the gel into the wounds, Achilles’s bright, spirited eyes flickering like green fire, Achilles’s smooth, golden skin kissed by the sun, Achilles, Achilles, Achilles.

He was like a god.

Patroclus followed the lines of muscle in Achilles’s arm as he tossed away the used aloe leaves and reached for the honeycomb, tearing his eyes away when Achilles caught him looking.

He blushed and turned away, only to glance back at him in surprise as Achilles scooped some honey out of the honeycomb with his fingers and began smearing it over Patroclus’s wounds.

“Infection?” he asked.

Achilles met his gaze evenly. _Yes, and more._

“Well…we give honey to people when they’re coughing,” Patroclus began. “It seems to help, so perhaps it also reduces irritation? In that case, I’d assume it has similar medicinal uses as aloe vera, although perhaps more effective.”

A glint in the green. _Yes._

Patroclus grinned. “I’m getting better at reading you.”

Achilles just looked back down at Patroclus’s wounds and kept applying honey. He fetched a few more strips of cloth from the deerskin bag and began wrapping the wounds, being careful not to touch Patroclus’s skin.

Patroclus couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed. He wondered once again if the air would change when they touched.

 

 

“Thank you,” Patroclus said as Achilles finished wrapping the last bandage. Achilles glanced at him, almost casually, just part of an intake of his surroundings, and then looked away again.

“Hey, Achilles, look at me.” Patroclus’s voice was gentle. He waited until the green gaze lifted up to meet his before speaking again. “You saved my life today. It’s only been two weeks since we starting talking – well, since I starting talking to you, and you…you risked so much to help me anyways.”

Patroclus’s gaze darted away for an instant as he huffed a nervous laugh. “I don’t know why you helped me, because you really didn’t need to, you really should’ve just left and not put yourself in danger, I mean –” He broke off and took a deep breath, forcing himself to look at Achilles again. "Why? Why did you do that?"

Achilles had never looked away. 

_You know, Patroclus._

_No I don't!_

“You owe me nothing, Achilles, and you were willing…you were willing to give your life for mine. You didn’t need to, but you did, and I…Gods, I don’t even know how to say it now, but I…I think I…” He trailed off. He’d never noticed the flecks of chestnut in Achilles’s eyes, or the faint silver scar above the arch of his left eyebrow, or the strands of nearly white gold in his hair, or the slightest upper curve of the right corner of his lip, even at rest. He had never been close enough. He had never been _this close._

His eyes flickered back to Achilles’s. His mouth opened ever so slightly, and he felt the cool rush of Achilles’s breath over his upper lip, felt the searching emerald gaze seek deep into his soul for answers to questions he did not know.

His voice came out in a breath. “Achilles, I…”

Outside, an eagle screamed.

Patroclus blinked and snapped his gaze away. He forced himself to breathe. When he looked back at Achilles, he was already scrubbing at the bloody cloths.

“I should go back,” Patroclus said.

It wasn’t what he meant to say.

He didn’t even know what he had meant to say.

Achilles paused in his washing, glancing up at Patroclus, his face a mask. In one fluid motion, he stood, and a moment later, Patroclus followed suit. Achilles did not offer him his hand, and Patroclus did not expect him to.

 

 

Patroclus knew it was probably not a good idea to try and walk back to Opus now, but he needed to try. Briseis was probably worrying her heart out about him, and if he didn’t make it back to Opus tonight, he wouldn’t be able to check on Automedon the next morning and both Polarius and his father would start asking questions. Right now, either of them finding out about Achilles was the last thing he needed.

It was already sunset by the time they reached the bottom of the mountain Achilles’s cave was on. Achilles had taken a spear from the cave and lead Patroclus back to the rabbit den before departing, but Patroclus knew he hadn’t really left. He saw him through the trees as he walked on the path back to Opus, a flash of golden hair, a shadow of a black-tipped spear, a glimpse of sun-kissed skin. A god. A ghost.

So when Patroclus felt the haze of blood loss-induced weakness come upon him, he knew it was Achilles who caught him in his arms.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once you've loved someone once, you never really let them go. Even if you don't remember.

 

 

Patroclus woke in Achilles’s cave early the next morning, sore but not in agony. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, stretching carefully so as not to pull on his wounds, and sat up. With a jolt of alarm, he realized that he was not wearing his chiton. He looked around for it but it was nowhere in sight; instead, there was a light green chiton folded on the ground next to him. He slipped it on and looked around at his surroundings.

He had been lying on a carpet of what felt and looked like lynx pelts, and a thin deerskin was what he had been using as a blanket. His pillow was made of fox skin and felt like it was stuffed with feathers. Another carpet of lynx pelts lay a few feet away, but there was no blanket or pillow; Achilles must have given his to Patroclus.

A small bowl of fruit and a jug of water lay on the floor near the cave’s entrance. Patroclus padded over cautiously, taking a cautious sip of the water. It was cold and slightly sweet; from a stream, most likely.

Munching on a few figs from the bowl, Patroclus walked outside onto the small ledge outside of the cave. Though the sun had barely started to rise, he knew he should be headed back to Opus soon. No doubt his absence last night at dinner had been noticed, and Briseis would be worried. But he should wait for Achilles to return.

Patroclus sat down at the edge of the ledge where the sun was just starting to hit the rock and leaned back, closing his eyes and letting the warmth seep into his bones.

He wondered if perhaps, in a different world, this could be his life. As close as he had come to death yesterday, he felt safe in the forest. He loved seeing the sky peeking out from between the trees instead of from between white buildings. He loved hearing the songs of wild birds instead of the harsh cacophony of the city. He loved feeling the wind on his skin, tasting the sweet clearness of the water, smelling the lush ripeness of fruits and berries. Come winter, he knew he would love it just the same.

Achilles returned as the sky faded from sunrise pink to daytime blue carrying Patroclus’s chiton, washed clean of bloodstains and still damp from the stream. He held it out to Patroclus.

Patroclus scrambled to his feet and took the chiton, slightly breathless. Achilles had nothing but a thin cloth wrapped around his waist, and his skin glowed in the morning sun.

“Thank you,” Patroclus said. Achilles met his gaze for a moment before turning and going back into the cave.

Patroclus followed him. “I mean it, Achilles. What you’ve done for me…I still don’t know why you did it, but I’m glad you did. If there’s anything I can do…” He trailed off. “I should be going back. My father will be looking for me.”

Achilles looked at him, his gaze flickering downwards at the light green chiton Patroclus was still wearing.

“Oh. Right.” Patroclus blushed. “I should change.”

There was a glint of amusement in Achilles’s eyes before he turned and left the cave to give Patroclus some privacy. 

Quickly, Patroclus removed the light green chiton and slipped on his own, fastening it over his shoulders. It was still slightly damp but pleasantly cool against his skin, and he smoothed out some of the wrinkles before stepping back outside of the cave. Achilles was waiting just outside the entrance, standing facing down the side of the mountain with his spear in hand. He turned as Patroclus emerged.

“I’m going back now,” Patroclus said, handing him the green chiton. “Thank you for everything.”

Achilles took the chiton, his fingers careful not to make contact with Patroclus’s skin. His chin dipped down ever so slightly in a nod and he leapt lightly off the ledge onto a rock below. Patroclus sat on the edge and slipped down much less gracefully; Achilles seemed amused when Patroclus caught up to him.

Achilles lead him down the mountain using the easiest path he could find and probably going much slower than he was accustomed to, but Patroclus’s wounds were throbbing by the time they were just halfway down, so he assumed it was probably for the better. He stopped once he reached the bottom of the mountain, panting, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath and ignore the increasing pain in his chest and shoulder. His ears rang and his head was starting to pound. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Achilles, noticing Patroclus was struggling, stopped and came back to him, waiting for him to recover. He held out a deerskin bag of water, and Patroclus gratefully took a few mouthfuls.

“Sorry,” Patroclus panted. “I’m…usually not this bad. But…blood loss, you know…taken its toll on me. You…don’t have to wait. I can make it back on my own.”

Achilles made no move to leave. Patroclus wasn’t surprised.

“Okay,” he said a few moments later, straightening up and pushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’m ready. We can keep going.”

Without a sound, Achilles turned and kept walking. Patroclus followed.

“Was the green chiton yours?” he asked as they walked. “It was beautiful; as fine as the finest in my father’s courts. But it does not seem as worn as the others that you wear and it fits me too well. I would think it would be small on you. Was it someone else’s? Perhaps someone you knew? Or perhaps it was yours when you were younger?”

Achilles did not answer.

Patroclus gave a soft smile. “You’re so mysterious, you know. Some days I think I can read you perfectly and I think I know everything that goes through your head. But other days…it’s like looking at blank pages and trying to get information out of them. I have no idea what’s going on. It’s not a bad thing though, it’s part of why I like you, really.”

He blinked. He had definitely not meant for that to come out.

But Achilles did not seem to have any reaction to that. Either he didn’t care, or he was being deliberately stone-faced.

Patroclus quickly changed the subject. “The figs this morning were wonderful,” he said. “You need to show me where you found them someday. Not that I’m going to steal them, of course,” he added quickly. He paused. “And not that I could steal them even if I wanted to. You see everything in these woods. You would know before I’d gone more than a few steps.”

Achilles glanced at him as he said that but was otherwise silent.

“It’s going to be difficult hiding what happened yesterday from my father,” Patroclus mused after a few moments of silence. “I mean, there’s no way I’m going to be able to hide the arrow wound; there’s no way I can hide the bandages from him, and if he found out that I was in the forest…” He shuddered. “There’s no saying what he would do. He’d probably kill me.”

At this, Achilles swung around and stopped in front of Patroclus, so quickly that Patroclus nearly bumped into him.

“Mother of Zeus,” he cursed, taking a step back so he could look up at Achilles. There was a dangerous look in his eyes “I was exaggerating. Menoitius wouldn’t _actually_ kill me. I’m his only son, and he knows he needs an heir.”

Achilles did not move, and when Patroclus tried to step around him to keep walking, Achilles simply took the step with him.

“For God’s sake, Achilles,” Patroclus snapped, “get out of the way! I need to get back to Opus; I’ll actually be in trouble if I’m not there soon. I have patients to look after and my father to answer to for missing dinner again yesterday.”

Still, Achilles did not move.

Patroclus sighed. “Really, Achilles, I didn’t mean it. My father might not be proud of me, but he wouldn’t kill me. I’ll be fine. The most I’ll be stuck doing is scrubbing the chamber pots or something. Promise. Now, can we please get going?”

Finally, reluctantly, Achilles stepped aside.

“Thank you,” Patroclus grumbled. “You owe me a fig now for making me late,” he added, jokingly, and was completely taken aback when Achilles casually produced one from his pocket and held it out for Patroclus to take.

“Oh,” Patroclus said. He took the fig. “Um. Thanks. I…I was joking again, but thanks.”

Achilles simply kept walking in silence.

Patroclus wondered if that would ever change.

 

 

Achilles stopped as soon as they reached the edge of the forest, but Patroclus sensed him watching him until he reached the walls of the city. He had held out the green chiton for Patroclus to take, but Patroclus had shaken his head.

“I can’t. I’m sorry; it’s beautiful, but my father and Briseis would ask too many questions that I wouldn’t be able to answer.” He hesitated. “Keep it for me, though? Perhaps…perhaps in the future.” He paused again, wanting to say something else, but instead of speaking he just gave Achilles a quick, apologetic smile and turned back to Opus.

 

 

As expected, Briseis was worried out of her mind when Patroclus found her at breakfast after checking on Automedon.

“For God’s sake, Patroclus, where have you _been_? I’ve been looking for you all night and couldn’t find you anywhere, and now you turn up with your shoulder bandaged?” She looked outraged, and her hazel eyes sparked with anger and worry. “Care to tell your best friend what’s been going on?”

Patroclus bit into his bread and didn’t answer.

Briseis put a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong, Pat?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Patroclus mumbled around a mouthful of bread. The figs he’d eaten earlier this morning seemed to be years away; the walk back had taken its toll on his body and he was exhausted.

“Oh, yeah, nothing’s wrong,” Briseis snarked. “You’re exhausted, Pat, and you have been for the past two weeks. Ever since you’ve been sneaking out every morning to the forest. Don’t look at me like that, Pat, of course I’ve noticed. Quite frankly, it’s a mystery your father hasn’t.”

“You can’t tell him,” Patroclus whispered fiercely. “He can’t know.”

“Who do you think I am?” Briseis retorted, offended. She took a defiant bite of her bread and downed it with a gulp of wine. “I’m not telling him anything, you nuthead. But as your best friend, I feel like I have a right to know what you’ve been doing. I’ve been worried sick about you, and I hate being sick, so you’d better tell me before I run off to Polarius.”

Patroclus frowned and took another bite of his breakfast. “Nothing’s wrong,” he repeated.

“Yeah, tell your shoulder that,” Briseis grumbled. “You’re stiff; I wouldn’t be surprised if you have more wounds that you’re not showing, covered up by that way too clean chiton of yours. I would know; you were wearing it yesterday when I saw you in town and warned you about the _murders_ in the woods, and it looks like it’s just been washed. Well, washed and then worn through a long trek in the woods, but my point stands. Now, Pat, tell me what’s going on.”

Patroclus glared at her. “Could you lower your voice a little?” he hissed. “My father is _right there_. I would like to keep him out of this as long as possible, seeing as I missed dinner again after he told me off for it the first time.”

Briseis snorted. “Fine. I’ll wait until breakfast is over, and then I’m going to head up to your room to clean it and you had better tell me _everything_. You understand? _Everything_. I told you all I knew about Achilles; this is the least you could –” She broke off, her eyes widening and her mouth opening in a gasp. “Oh my Gods,” she whispered. “This is about Achilles, isn’t it? You’ve been looking for him! That’s why you wanted to know about him and that’s why you were out every morning! And I bet that’s where you were last night too – looking for him again!”

Patroclus shushed her. “No, I most definitely was _not_! Now be quiet and finish your breakfast.”

Briseis stuck her tongue out at him. “Nice one, coming from you, Patroclus, misser of dinners.”

Patroclus gave her a look and stuffed the rest of his bread into his mouth before standing up from the table. “See, normally I’d bring my plates to the kitchens myself so there’s one less thing for you to carry,” he said loftily. “But since you’re annoying me, I think I’m going to leave them here and let the servants do the work they’re supposed to.”

“Screw you,” Briseis muttered. “But I’m still getting my answers.”

 

 

Briseis did get her answers. She wanted to hear everything from the beginning, so after making her swear not to tell anyone, which she did with quite a lot of offended scoffing, Patroclus told her.

He talked about first seeing Achilles five years ago when he was gathering medicinal herbs for Polarius, recounting the fear he felt and the uncertainty afterwards as to whether or not what he had seen had been real. He talked about seeing Achilles again five years later and how he had asked him questions, only to receive silence in response. He talked about going to see him again, and again, and again. He talked about the stories he told him. He talked about the way Achilles watched him while he spoke, ever silent. And then he talked about how Achilles had saved him from Paris and taken him back to his home for the night when Patroclus had collapsed on the way back to Opus.

Briseis looked deeply unhappy when he had finished his story. “You shouldn’t see him again,” she said.

Patroclus was taken aback. “Why?”

Briseis shook her head and brushed the stray lock of hair behind her ears. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. If the legends are true and he only shows himself to certain people…he’s a killer, Patroclus, and you can’t forget that. What could he possibly want with you?”

“He’s…he saved me,” Patroclus said, bewildered. “All he’s ever done is protect me. He’s never done anything to hurt me and I know he never would.”

“Okay, let’s just assume what you’re saying is true, which I doubt,” Briseis said. “Even then, even if he never meant to hurt you, who’s to say he wouldn’t do so accidentally? Yes, he saved you, but you have to remember that he’s a _killer_. You can’t trust him. I don’t think you should see him again.”

Patroclus shook his head and turned away from her. “You just haven’t met him, Briseis. If you had, you would know that he’s not what you think he is. He’s different.”

Briseis arched her eyebrows. “Pat, you’ve known him for _two weeks_. You can’t just go around saying things like that. Please, just…just stay away from him. I don’t trust him.”

Patroclus knew she had a point. But at the same time, he truly believed Achilles was more than what the legends made him out to be. He wasn’t just a killer, and he wasn’t just a god. He was more than that in ways Patroclus could never hope to be able to put into words.

“I can’t,” he said instead. “Even if I wanted to avoid him, I couldn’t.”

“And what’s stopping you?”

“I just…I can’t stay away from him. He’s…intoxicating. Being around him is different.” He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know how to describe it, but you have to believe me. If you don’t trust him, trust me. You do trust me, right, Briseis?”

Briseis looked deeply unhappy. Finally, she sighed. “I can’t stop you, Pat,” she said quietly, putting a hand on his. “And of course I trust you. You know that. Just…be careful. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

Patroclus nodded and put his arms around her, burying his nose in her hair. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “You’re my best friend, Briseis,” he murmured.

Briseis leaned into him and closed her eyes.

 

 

Patroclus dreamt that night.

Achilles appeared like a shade, his spear moving like a beam of light and his body bending like fire as he fought shadows and monsters and demons. His eyes were two bright green stars, and when he approached Patroclus and took his hand, their touch lit up the world.

Patroclus woke. The moon was just starting to set, and the faintest tinge of pink was on the horizon, signaling another dawn. He took a few deep breaths, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, and when he felt his limbs go heavy and his eyelids droop, he slipped back into sleep.

And then it was Achilles again.

It was all Achilles. His hands, his back, his chest, his lips – _oh_ , his lips, pressed against Patroclus, mouthing at his jawline, his neck, his collarbone. He made no noise, so it was all Achilles and all Patroclus, filling the air with his sighs, his moans, his cries. It was all Achilles and all Patroclus, nothing but them and silence and touch and passion. Not even the world existed to them.

_Achilles._

Their hands met over Patroclus’s head, and then Achilles was grasping the bedsheets and Patroclus was writhing beneath him in the heat of passion, his mouth parted in a sigh as Achilles kissed down his neck, his chest, his stomach, taking him into his throat, his tongue dancing. It was all Achilles and all Patroclus, and nothing mattered but that they were there together under the stars.

_Achilles._

Achilles was under him now, his head back to bare his neck which Patroclus claimed with kisses and bites, his back arched to bare his chest which Patroclus marked with bruises and touches, his legs spread to bare himself which Patroclus took with his seed. It was all Achilles and all Patroclus, joined together so tightly that Patroclus did not know where he ended and Achilles began, and Patroclus knew this had happened before.

_Achilles._

_Achilles._

_Achilles._

Achilles’s mouth opened to cry Patroclus’s name.

 

 

Patroclus woke with a start, panting, his heart racing. A thin sheen of sweat covered his body, and he was hard under the covers.

Little pieces of the dream came back to him like wisps of smoke, and his eyes closed.

_Achilles._

His mouth on Patroclus, his hands touching him, his body claiming him.

_Do I love him?_

His hand moved to between his thighs.

_How do I love a god?_

His hand stroked.

_Achilles is Aristos Achaion._

He was taking Achilles again, claiming him.

_He fought like a god._

Heat pooled in his belly.

_And strangely, when Achilles fought, it was also when he was the most human._

His back arched, and the coiled heat released.

 

 

In the darkness, the name of the best of the Greeks was uttered like a sigh on the wind.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are so many firsts with you. I think I know you, but there is so much more to you that I have yet to see. Will you show me, someday, the rest of you? Do you love me enough to show me?

 

 

Patroclus went back to the rabbit den the next morning, eager to see Achilles again. His wounds had already started to scab over thanks to whatever herbs Achilles had used but he knew they would reopen with any strenuous movement, so he walked carefully.

But when he got to the rabbit den, Achilles wasn’t there.

Patroclus took a cautious step out of the trees. “Achilles?” he called, tentatively.

There was no answer. Patroclus crouched down and waited; perhaps Achilles was hunting. He would be here soon.

The sun rose higher in the sky. A fox trotted across the clearing, pausing by the stream to take a drink. Silver droplets dripped from its muzzle when it stood back up and padded into the underbrush. Two birds fluttered from the branches and disappeared into the sky. A squirrel skittered down from a tree to dig at a spot on the ground. And still, Achilles did not appear.

Patroclus waited for as long as he could, but the sun was already high in the sky, and Achilles was not there. Patroclus stood up, confused and disappointed. He had to head back now if he was going to make it to breakfast and avoid an intense questioning by Briseis and his father.

Achilles was busy. That was all. Patroclus would see him tomorrow.

 

 

Achilles was not there tomorrow either, or the day after that, or the day after that. Patroclus called out to him every time, but he did not appear. He talked anyways. He spoke of what was happening in his life, of Briseis’s suspicion and his confidence that she was wrong, of how worried he was about his mother. He asked if Achilles had left him, and he told him how much it hurt. And still, Achilles did not appear.

The forest felt empty without him.

Patroclus tried not to think too much about it. Achilles was busy. He’d had eternity to his own, and Patroclus had simply walked into his life a little more than two weeks ago; there were bound to be days when Achilles was too busy for him.

Right. That’s what it was. He couldn’t expect Achilles to have time for him every day. It didn’t mean anything that he hadn’t been there.

_But what if he just left? He’s had so long to himself, and he’s like a god. What if he got bored of me and left me to find something else to entertain him?_

But if that was the case, if Achilles felt nothing for him, would he have saved him?

_But if Achilles did feel something for me, why hadn’t he left me a sign? Why wouldn’t he have let me know, somehow, that he was not going to be there? Did he care enough for that?_

Achilles was like a god. Patroclus couldn’t expect him to think like a human.

Besides, there were other things he needed to worry about. Queen Philomena had been absent from meals for the past week, and Polarius wasn’t telling him anything. He’d gone to his father as well, but he had simply said she was just ill and refused to answer any more questions.

“Just ill,” he’d scoffed to Briseis afterwards. “Illness that they won’t tell me anything about? No, it has to be something worse than just some generic ‘illness.’ My father’s worried, Polarius is worried, everyone’s worried. I can see it. And I don’t understand why they won’t say anything.”

“Relax, Pat,” Briseis had pleaded. “Look, I know how close you are to your mother –”

“ _Was_ ,” Patroclus corrected. “When I was little. Before she got sick. Before everyone started keeping me away from her.” He shook his head helplessly. “I barely even know her anymore.”

Briseis looked pained. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I’m sure everything is going to be fine. Polarius is a wonderful healer. _You’re_ a wonderful healer. She’s in good hands.”

Patroclus snorted. “There’s nothing I can do if they won’t even let me see her.”

Briseis bit her lip. “Maybe you can talk to Polarius about it? I’m sure he could use some help with her, and even your father has to listen to Polarius if it has to do with healing, right? As long as you can convince Polarius to let you see her, your father will _have_ to listen.” She put a hand on Patroclus’s arm. “It’ll be okay,” she said again. “She’ll be fine. Just like last time, right? I mean yes, she was sick for a few months, but everything turned out okay. It’ll be the same way this time.”

“Yeah, hopefully,” Patroclus grumbled. “I just wish my father would _say_ something to me. She’s my mother too. I care about her, and he has no reason to keep me in the dark.”

Briseis sighed. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, Pat. Just…just try, okay? Convince Polarius to let you see her. He can’t keep you away; you’re her son, and I’m sure she wants to see you too. Look at me, Pat. Everything is going to be okay. Talk to Polarius. Everything is going to work out.”

 

 

But as the Fates would have it, there was no need.

“Patroclus!” Menoitius called as Patroclus was leaving dinner the next day. “I need to speak with you.”

Patroclus walked to where his father was seated at the head of the table downing the last of his wine and gave a small bow. “Yes, Father?”

“Your mother wants to see you, Patroclus,” Menoitius rumbled.

Patroclus drew in a sharp breath.

“Not today,” Menoitius said, seeing the hopeful look on his son’s face. “Polarius said perhaps tomorrow she will be doing well enough to see you. He will let you know in the morning.”

“How is she doing, Father?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. She will be bedridden for many more days, and Polarius is not confident that she will recover.” Menoitius frowned and stood. “Come and walk with me, Patroclus. There are other things I need to discuss with you.”

Patroclus walked beside his father as they left the dining hall for the grounds, Menoitius with his hands clasped behind his back. He was silent for a few minutes, face lifted to the horizon, the wind ruffling his hair.

“You have been injured,” Menoitius said.

Patroclus’s heart missed a beat. “Yes, I…I was not being careful. I slipped and hit my shoulder.”

“Ah.” Menoitius’s voice was neutral. “You should be more careful. Opus needs its healers.”

“Yes, Father.” He hid his surprise; that was the kindest thing his father had ever said to him.

There were a few minutes of silence.

“You are twenty-two now, Patroclus,” his father said presently. “A man.”

Patroclus was silent.

“I cannot remain king forever, and your mother cannot bear me another child.”

Patroclus winced. The meaning was clear; Menoitius would not have Patroclus on the throne if he could help it. A king should be just and fair and be able to make the decisions that would best benefit his people, but he should also be a warrior. It was still an age of battle and conquering. A city with a healer as its king would not survive.

“I would have another man than you succeed me,” Menoitius said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. Patroclus did not blame him; he’d made his distaste for his son clear. Everyone knew of it, and there was no reason for him to hide it. “A healer cannot be a king.”

He stopped and turned to face Patroclus for the first time. “However, I would not have my bloodline end with one such as you. It would be a dishonor. I would have you take a wife. I would have you father a child. Perhaps your child will be worthier of my name than you have been. Perhaps your child will bring my name honor.”

Patroclus met his gaze evenly, refusing to back down. He was twenty-two. He was a man. He had his own honor.

Menoitius was the first to look away. He walked to the edge of the grounds overlooking the rest of the city. “I have chosen a woman for you. Her name is Deidameia, daughter of Lycomedes of Skyros. Her name will bring honor and hope to the bloodline even if yours does not. You are to be married in three months.”

Patroclus’s eyes widened with horror. “Father, I –”

Menoitius turned to his son, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. “I am your father and your king, Patroclus. You will do as I say.”

Patroclus looked down, abashed. “Yes, Father.”

He did not think about Achilles. He could not think about Achilles.

It wouldn’t matter, anyway. He would not be king, and Deidameia would not be queen. He would have no responsibility to the child, or to her. But he was not a monster; he would make sure she and the child would be cared for. He would make sure they were safe.

But he could still belong to Achilles.

“You are dismissed,” Menoitius said, turning away from him.

Patroclus gave a small bow and left.

 

 

Patroclus didn’t really expect much when he went back into the woods the sixth day, in the afternoon this time since he had gone to visit his mother in the morning. She had been weak and thin and pale, but her eyes had brightened when she’d seen him and her embrace was just as warm as it always had been.

She had only been ill for a week, but oh, how he’d missed her.

Patroclus followed the trail back to the rabbit den and crouched down, waiting for a few minutes to see if Achilles would appear, but just like the past five days, he didn’t.

Hesitantly, he called out. “Achilles? Are you there?”

There was no movement for a few moments, but then, like a shadow, Achilles appeared, moving silently through the trees until he emerged beside the stream.

Patroclus’s heart thumped and he stood, walking forward slowly until he was standing in front of Achilles. Achilles did not move. He barely even breathed, and ever muscle was like marble as he watched Patroclus approach.

“You…you weren’t here,” he said hesitantly. “For a week, you weren’t here.” He broke off, looking down awkwardly. When he looked up again, Achilles had walked a few meters downstream and stood looking back at him.

“Do you…am I supposed to follow you?”

Achilles took another few steps and looked back again at Patroclus. The answer was clear.

Patroclus hesitated.

Patroclus followed.

 

 

Achilles lead him along the stream for what felt like a few miles before he veered away from it and stepped into the underbrush. Patroclus hesitated, but the sun was still relatively high. He would have time to get back before it set.

The ferns brushed at his calves, and birds chirped overhead. Achilles remained a few steps out of reach, and soon Patroclus became aware that this was probably much slower than Achilles was accustomed to travelling and made an effort to catch up.

Achilles paused at a small tree, and when Patroclus reached him, he saw that the branches were full of ripe figs. Achilles one off and put it into his mouth, the juice of the fig staining his fingers dark red. He looked expectantly at Patroclus, and cautiously, Patroclus pulled one off and tasted it.

The flavor exploded in his mouth and some juice dribbled down his chin as the fig burst; it was much juicier than Patroclus had expected. Patroclus covered his mouth, embarrassed, and Achilles’s lips twitched in amusement.

“It’s delicious,” Patroclus said. Sweet and rich; even more so than the ones the servants brought for his father’s meals. His eyes widened in realization. “These are the figs, right? The figs you brought me that morning?”

The corner of Achilles’s lips curved upwards ever so slightly.

Patroclus beamed. He ate a few more before Achilles turned and kept walking.

They kept going for what seemed like several hours before they reached the bottom of a rocky mountain and Achilles began to climb up, leaping gracefully from one rock to the other, muscles flexing smoothly with every movement, his steps as light as a deer’s. Patroclus scrambled up awkwardly behind him; Achilles didn’t speak or smile, but Patroclus thought he caught a glimpse of amusement in the deep emerald eyes.

“My shoulder’s still stiff, shut up,” Patroclus grumbled, knowing full well that a stiff shoulder had nothing to do with tripping over rocks.

“Where are we going?” Patroclus panted as he caught up with Achilles on a small ledge.

Achilles’s lips twitched, but he didn’t speak. Patroclus hadn’t expected him to.

They kept climbing, and before long Patroclus could see the sky peaking over the top of the mountain, slightly pinkish. The sun must be setting already. He rushed forward eagerly, and together he and Achilles reached the top, Patroclus considerably more dirty and sweaty than Achilles.

But if Achilles had brought him up here to show him the view, there was much to be desired. Patroclus looked around, craning his neck to try and get a glimpse of the valley below through the trees, but he could see nothing except green, green, and more green. And then more green, as Achilles looked into his eyes.

“What’s up here?” Patroclus asked.

Achilles beckoned him forward and lead him through a small gap in the trees onto a second ledge that peeked out from the mountainside. Patroclus followed him out onto the ledge – and gasped.

The land lay spread out before him like a massive rug with rolling hills and dipping valleys. The setting sun’s beams cut through the clouds and dazzled his eyes; birds fluttered through the orange sky and rivers glittered through the green.

Stunned, Patroclus turned to Achilles.

“It’s…it’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Achilles seemed pleased. He walked to the edge of the ledge and sat down with his legs crossed, leaning back on his hands and looking over his shoulder at Patroclus, asking him to do the same.

Hesitantly, Patroclus approached and settled down beside him.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he murmured.

There were a few minutes of silence, during which the sun slipped further down. After a while he spoke again. “You…you feel really familiar.” Patroclus frowned. “I mean you _should_ , since we know each other pretty well considering you don’t really react to what I’m saying or even talk, but even so.” He broke off. “I never asked. _Can_ you talk?”

He didn’t expect an answer, but Achilles’s face broke into a soft smile and his voice slipped out between soft lips. “Yes.”

It was so soft, so melodic, that at first Patroclus thought he had imagined it, but when he looked up, Achilles was still smiling at him.

Smiling.

He was like the sun, how beautiful and bright he was when he smiled. Dimly, Patroclus realized that this was the first time he had seen Achilles do anything except stare blankly at him.

Patroclus gaped. “You…you – what?”

“Yes,” Achilles repeated. “I can talk.”

His voice was ever so slightly raspy, the way it is when it hasn’t been used in a long time, and his words were accented in a way that Patroclus couldn’t place.

Patroclus’s mouth was still hanging open. “You…you can talk,” he said dumbly. “You can talk.”

“Yes.” Achilles looked slightly perplexed that Patroclus kept repeating the same thing.

“So…so all these months…I asked you questions, Achilles! And you never responded to them!”

Achilles merely shrugged, the muscles in his shoulders rippling with the movement. His smile widened to show a flash of white teeth as he saw Patroclus’s eyes following them hungrily, and Patroclus looked away in shame.

_Would the air spark between us if we touched?_

“Out here, the voice is a precious thing.”

Patroclus waited for him to continue, but when several moments passed and he showed no signs of meaning to elaborate he realized that was all Achilles was going to say.

“You decided to talk now, though,” he prompted.

Achilles’s gaze flickered down to Patroclus’s lips and then back up to his eyes, so casually that Patroclus could not – would not – imagine he meant anything by it. He didn’t say anything.

Patroclus tried again. “Why did you decide to talk now?”

Achilles looked away. The sun shone from its low angle, illuminating the front of his face and casting sharp shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes glittered, flashing bright green as they slid downwards.

“Only for you.”

Patroclus’s heart thudded.

“And…and letting me see you? Was that just me too?”

“Yes.”

_And saving me? Giving your life for mine? Was that just me too?_

But he couldn’t ask that.

Achilles glanced at him, just the slightest of movements, his chin tilting towards Patroclus.

“Say something else,” Patroclus whispered.

Achilles raised an eyebrow questioningly, his lips parting in confusion.

“Anything,” Patroclus said earnestly. “I want to hear you talk.”

Still, Achilles was silent, but he was now looking at Patroclus expectantly, as if waiting. _For what?_

Oh.

“You want me to ask you questions,” Patroclus said.

Achilles didn’t respond, but then again, he never had before this moment and some aspects of conversation might still be new to him, so Patroclus took it as a yes.

“Okay. First thing’s first. I came here every day. Well, not here, but…back at the stream. I went there every day for a week, and you never showed. Where were you?”

“Thinking.”

Patroclus frowned. “For a week? About what?”

Achilles met his gaze evenly. “You.”

Patroclus opened his mouth and then shut it again. He blinked. “Oh.” He swallowed. “What about me?”

“Just…you,” Achilles said, gesturing vaguely.

“That’s not a very good answer,” Patroclus said, slightly miffed.

Achilles flashed him a brilliant smile, and Patroclus was completely disarmed for a moment. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts and remember what he was going to say.

“So you…you were thinking about me. What specifically? And why did it take a week?”

Achilles was still smiling. “There is a lot to think about when thinking about you.”

Patroclus raised an eyebrow and looked at him disbelievingly. “Why couldn’t you just come see me?”

“I did see you. Every day you came, I was watching you, ready to fight if you were in danger.”

“You…you were watching me? So you saw me come here, every day, for a week, and you didn’t think to show yourself? You didn’t think to let me know that you were okay?” Patroclus’s voice rose in disbelief. “I waited for you, Achilles! I thought you didn’t want to see me or something. I thought you _left_ me. I thought you didn’t care. And I _told_ you that! Every day I came and you weren’t there, I talked anyways! But you know that already, don’t you? You were just there, watching me from where I couldn’t see you, from where I couldn’t talk to _you_. Talking to the trees isn’t the same, even though at that point you didn’t talk either.”

Achilles’s smile faltered and he looked away. “I needed to make sure you stayed safe. I was not sure you wanted to see me.”

Patroclus snorted. “And what put that thought into your mind?”

Achilles glanced at him. “I put you in danger,” he said quietly. “With Paris. You were hurt because he was coming after me.”

“You…but you saved me.”

“Yes,” Achilles conceded, “but you were hurt first.”

Patroclus drew back, realizing that he had never considered this perspective. He wanted so badly to see Achilles that he never considered the idea that Achilles didn’t know he felt that way. “I asked if you were there,” he said uncertainly. “Every day that I came, I called to you. Surely…surely you would’ve known, then, that I was looking for you?”

“At first I thought you were angry. And then I realized that it didn’t matter. I couldn’t risk your life, so I stayed away.”

“But you’re here now.”

“Yes,” Achilles agreed, “but I should not have come. For your safety. But if you wish me to stay, I will stay, and I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

Patroclus blinked, quite touched. “Well, I want to see you,” he said finally. “Every day. Forever.”

Achilles smiled at him again. “That is good to hear.”

Patroclus huffed a laugh. “I’m…I’m sorry. That I yelled at you.”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

Patroclus bit his lip and looked down.

Achilles was still watching him, smiling. “You have more questions.”

He couldn’t have been more grateful for the change of subject. “Oh, yes, definitely. I’ve been wondering, ever since I first saw you, how old are you? You look like you could be around my age, but looks can be deceiving.” His grace, for one. His power, for two. The way he held a spear, for three. He was like a god, and gods had no age.

“I am twenty-five.”

_Some say he is immortal._

“How long have you been twenty-five?” His voice was soft, hesitant, but he took great pride in knowing that it did not shake.

Achilles did not falter. “How long is one usually twenty-five?” he asked with a grin.

_One year, but you are like a god._

“My birthday was two months ago,” Achilles said. “I’m sure you can figure it out from there.”

Patroclus stuck his tongue out at the friendly jibe. He was lying. He must have been lying. He was the Achilles of the myths, and he was born eons ago. But if Achilles didn’t want to say, Patroclus wouldn’t press it. Besides, there was more that he wanted to know.

Achilles seemed to have read his mind. “More questions?”

Patroclus grinned. “What were you doing here when I first saw you? Did you live in these woods your entire life? Who taught you to fight and hunt like you do? Where are you from? What –” He broke off as he saw Achilles grinning at him in amusement. “Sorry.” He ducked his head. “I’ll slow down. First question: what were you doing here the first time I saw you?”

Achilles tilted his head. “Hunting.” He spoke as if the answer should have been obvious.

Patroclus frowned. “You’re very bad at answering questions, Achilles. I _know_ you were hunting when I saw you. But what were you doing in the woods? You live in these woods. Why?”

“They are my home.”

“Your whole life? Surely you must have been born somewhere, to some couple.”

“My father was Peleus. My mother was Thetis.”

 _Was._ So they were dead. The names were completely unfamiliar, except that there was a ferocious sea-nymph named Thetis in the old myth books in Opus’s library, but Patroclus doubted she was who he was talking about. Thetis was part of a myth.

_Then again, he’d thought the same about Achilles._

“Where are you from?”

“Phthia.”

“Is that where you learned to hunt and fight like this?”

Achilles frowned and pushed his hair back from his eyes. Patroclus tried very hard not to stare at the muscles flexing in his arm. “Yes…and no. I was naturally very good. There was little they had to teach me.”

Patroclus raised his eyebrows. “So you naturally knew how to fight like this?"

“It was easy to figure out, yes.”

“So why aren’t you there now? I’m sure they could use someone like you.”

Achilles looked slightly uncomfortable. “Some things happened. I will not go back.”

“Oh.” Patroclus looked down at his hands, sensing that however curious he was, this was something Achilles was unwilling to talk about. “So…when did you come here? Into the woods?”

“Many years ago.”

Patroclus frowned at the vague answer but didn’t push it. “Did you ever meet anyone else here?”

Achilles tilted his head to one side. “There are not many people in these woods, but yes, I have met a few.”

“Who…who were they?”

Achilles gave a small, sad smile. “People like you.”

“…What does that mean?”

Achilles sighed softly and looked away from Patroclus again into the setting sun. He seemed distant, as if remembering something sad, and after a few more minutes let out another sigh.

Patroclus’s voice was soft. “Achilles?”

Achilles looked back at him. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I got distracted.”

“It’s okay,” Patroclus whispered. “What do you mean, people like me?”

“Just…people like you,” Achilles said simply, softly. “I don’t know how to describe it. But…good people. I can tell by their souls. People I find worth exposing myself to.”

Patroclus’s breath hitched. “And…what happened to these people?”

Achilles drew back and didn’t answer.

A small tendril of fear lodged itself somewhere in Patroclus’s brain. “Achilles?” he asked again. “What happened to those people? Are they…are they dead?”

Still no answer.

“Achilles, please,” Patroclus whispered. “Answer me.”

Achilles turned to him again, and his expression was unreadable. But a few moments later his face broke into another smile. “Patroclus,” he said softly. Pa-tro-clus. Three syllables, like the drop of a coin. Like a heartbeat.

Patroclus couldn’t help but smile back at him.

“Does it matter?” Achilles asked him. “If it matters, I will answer. But you may be afraid of the answer.”

He was on the edge of a cliff. He saw himself about to fall.

“No,” he said. “No, it does not matter.”

Achilles’s smile widened. “Patroclus,” he said again.

 

 

Achilles walked him back to the edge of the forest. Patroclus could see the lights of Opus glittering orange in the distance, and stopped to look at Achilles.

“Thank you for bringing me there today,” he said quietly.

Achilles’s smile lit up the sky. “We will go there again,” he promised.

“I’m glad.”

They stood in silence for a few moments before Patroclus spoke again.

“I…I should head back. They’ll be looking for me.”

Achilles dipped his head. “Goodnight then, Patroclus.”

Patroclus smiled. “Goodnight.”

There was a pause, as if they expected something else to happen, but then Patroclus cleared his throat and turned to leave. He’d taken a few steps before Achilles called out to him, softly.

“Patroclus!”

He turned and rushed back, breathless, his heart pounding. Achilles had taken a step towards him and looked torn. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before, hesitantly, he brought it up to Patroclus’s cheek, cupping it gently, his expression unreadable.

Patroclus closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, his lips parting with a sigh. The air did spark around them.

”Achilles,” he whispered.

The thumb stroked his cheek once, twice, and then Achilles lowered his hand.

“Goodnight, Patroclus,” he murmured. “Sleep well.”

Patroclus smiled, but when he opened his eyes again, Achilles was gone.

He could still feel the whispers of Achilles’s fingers on his cheek.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardest part about skydiving is the jump. But after that, everything is beautiful. You just have to jump first.

 

 

Patroclus’s stomach growled as he entered the castle, far past dinnertime. He hoped the servants were still in the kitchens for him to beg some leftovers from, but by the time he got there, the doors were closed.

“Damn,” he said, turning and making his way to his room, not particularly miffed by his missed meal. He’d just have to wait until tomorrow morning; he’d ask Achilles if he could get some more figs before breakfast and he’d be fine.

His heart beat a little faster as he thought about Achilles.

_Pa-tro-clus._

Patroclus grinned.

He threw open the door to his room and shed his chiton, tossing himself onto the bed, still smiling. He huffed a laugh and grinned at the ceiling. He felt like a young boy again.

_Only for you._

He laughed again and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.

“Just what do you think you’re laughing at?”

Patroclus let out a very unmanly shriek and nearly fell off the bed in surprise. He scrambled to his feet and clutched his sheets to his chest as Briseis stepped out from the shadows with a smirk.

“Briseis!” he hissed. “I’m _naked_!”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I’m twenty. Besides, whose fault is it, really?”

“It’s _my_ room,” Patroclus pointed out, trying awkwardly to get is chiton back on behind the sheet and failing. “What are you even doing here?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Pat, relax,” Briseis grumbled. “I brought you dinner.” She held out a basket with bread, a few slices of ham, vegetables, and fruit. “Noticed you were gone during dinner and figured you were out with Achilles again, so I decided to be a good friend and sneak something for you to eat when you got back instead of letting you go hungry until tomorrow morning like a better and more responsible friend would.”

Patroclus looked around, wrapping the bedsheet tighter around himself. “Uh…thanks. Just, uh, put it down next to the bed, I guess.”

Briseis smirked and placed it down where Patroclus indicated before sitting herself down on his bed and crossing her arms. “So, Patroclus. What are you so happy about?”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. “Briseis, can I at least get my clothes back on before you start asking questions?”

“Shut up, Pat, stop making a big deal out of it and tell me what’s got you in such a good mood.”

“You already know,” Patroclus grumbled. “You just said I was out with Achilles.”

Briseis frowned. “Is that supposed to tell me anything?”

Patroclus sighed. “Look, Briseis, I know how you feel about me going to see him, but –”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Briseis interrupted. “I know you’re not going to listen to me whatever I say, you’ll keep saying how beautiful he is and how he saved you and how he’s wonderful and all that even though he’s a killer, so I’m just going to give up on trying to tell you to never see him again and just focus on trying to keep you safe. Now, tell me, what happened between you two?”

Patroclus blinked and sat down on the bed next to her, wrapping the sheet around him like a cloak. “Nothing happened,” he said.

Briseis raised her eyebrows. “Nothing. Okay. Is that why you’re grinning like a little girl who’s just been kissed by the handsome boy she’s in love with?”

Patroclus blushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re blushing,” Briseis said triumphantly. “So is that what happened? Did he kiss you?”

Patroclus blushed harder. “No, that is _definitely_ not what happened.”

Briseis groaned and nudged him with her shoulder. “Come on, Pat, tell me!”

Patroclus looked away and didn’t answer, but a grin was playing at his lips. No, Achilles hadn’t kissed him, but oh, how wonderful that would be.

“Pat. You’re grinning again.”

Patroclus immediately tried to force a frown. “So what?”

“Tell me what happened!”

“Nothing, I said! He just –” Patroclus broke off.

“He just what?” Briseis pressed.

Patroclus felt his cheeks heating up. “He just…he touched my cheek,” he mumbled.

Briseis was staring at him incredulously when he looked back up at her. “Really? That’s what’s got you so excited? It’s not like he hasn’t touched you before, right? Right?”

Patroclus didn’t answer.

“Oh my Gods,” Briseis gasped. “So you mean…all this time, he’s never…?”

“He’s never talked before, either,” Patroclus said quietly. “Today…today was the first time. He’s a very private person, Briseis. Which is to be expected, I guess, after living alone in the woods for such a long time. But this was the first time he’s talked to me and actually touched me in any way.”

“Hm. I bet you want him to touch you in more ways,” Briseis teased, waggling her eyebrows.

Patroclus blushed. “Shut up.”

Briseis gave a short laugh. “Alright. I still don’t like this and I still don’t really trust him, but I trust you, and I guess that’s going to have to be enough. For your sake and his, I really hope you’re right about him.”

“I am,” Patroclus insisted.

“You’d better be, because if you’re not and he hurts you, I’m coming after him myself and he’s going to regret the day he was ever born.”

“You’re a menace,” Patroclus muttered. “And for the record, he only killed to save me, and he stopped when I told him to. He’s not just some blind murderer, Briseis. He’s a soldier, just like Ajax and Arasseon and my father. He’s good.”

Briseis looked at him thoughtfully. “Alright,” she conceded. “I’ll take that. Just remember that he’s a more dangerous soldier than most.” She stood up. “Now put your clothes on and eat your dinner. I’ll come back for the basket in the morning while you’re off in the woods with Achilles.”

 

 

Patroclus was indeed off in the woods with Achilles by the time the servants were supposed to come around and clean the rooms. He met Achilles by the same rabbit den, grinning and eager to talk to him again.

“Good morning!” he greeted cheerily as Achilles appeared.

Achilles simply dipped his head in return, but there was a smile on his face.

“What are we doing today?” Patroclus asked, practically skipping over to him, heedless of the cold stream water splashing over his feet. Just the thought of Achilles was enough to bring a smile to his face, and Achilles was here, right in front of him. Nothing mattered except for that.

“I thought to show you the forest,” Achilles said.

“Do you mean like the place we went yesterday?” Patroclus asked eagerly. “Does it have a name? It was beautiful and I would love to go there again, but if there are more places you want to show me that would be wonderful.”

Achilles looked amused, but there was a softness to his gaze that resembled something like fondness. “Whatever you like.”

Patroclus blushed. Briseis was right; he really was acting like a young girl around the handsome boy she was in love with. “I’ll follow you. Show me the forest.”

“Come, then.” Achilles turned and walked in a new direction that Patroclus had never been in before. There was no trail, but there was no need for one, Patroclus realized. Achilles didn’t need a trail to follow; the forest was his home.

Still, as Patroclus was less accustomed to walking through the underbrush than Achilles, it made it more difficult for him to keep up and he kept tripping over vines and branches hidden in the tall grass or nearly running into low-hanging branches.

“Pay attention, Patroclus,” Achilles said softly. “You need to see your surroundings, but do not think too much of it. Become part of the forest.”

“What does that even mean?” Patroclus grumbled, wiping dirt off of his knees.

Achilles simply smiled at him. “You will see. It takes time.” He held out a hand for Patroclus to take and pulled him up to his feet.

“Where are we going?” Patroclus asked.

Achilles was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “Tell me, Patroclus, have you ever seen the sea?”

Patroclus’s breath hitched in his throat. “No,” he whispered. He’d heard about it, of course, and seen pictures in the old books in the library, but he’d never seen it in person even though it was only a day’s journey away on foot. There was no reason for him to have ever seen it. “Are we going there now?”

Achilles gave a soft laugh and turned to Patroclus, his face glowing even under the shade of the trees with the radiance of his smile. “No, Patroclus. It is too far for one morning. Perhaps one day I will take you there.”

“Oh.” Patroclus tried not to be disappointed that he had responsibilities back at Opus. “Then where are we going?”

“You will see.”

“You’re so vague and mysterious,” Patroclus grumbled, tripping over a tree root.

Achilles shook his head in amusement at Patroclus’s struggles. “Relax, Patroclus. Don’t fight the forest, because it will always win.”

“I’m not fighting it,” Patroclus protested.

“You just glared at the tree root you tripped over,” Achilles said.

“That’s not fighting it,” Patroclus countered, stubbing his toe on a rock hidden in the soil and immediately turning around and cursing at it.

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “And that?”

Patroclus opened his mouth to argue but then closed it again. This wasn’t the only thing he’d yelled at since they’d left the rabbit den. He stomped off in a huff. “Okay, okay,” he griped. “I get it. I’ll work on it. But glaring at things is what you might call my specialty, so don’t expect things to change too quickly.”

Achilles’s lips curved upwards in a smile. “Of course, Patroclus.”

“So where _are_ we going?” Patroclus asked again, gingerly pushing a thorny branch out of his face that Achilles had not seemed bothered by at all.

Achilles sighed and stopped abruptly, turning back to Patroclus. “You really are stubborn,” he commented with a frown, though not unkindly.

“And _you_ have quite an odd habit of suddenly stopping without warning and making the person behind you run into you,” Patroclus pointed out, promptly bumping into Achilles and stepping back so his nose wasn’t shoved into Achilles’s chest.

_Sandalwood and pomegranate._

Patroclus’s heart did something funny and he took another step back for good measure.

“My apologies,” Achilles said, grinning, not sincerely at all. “There was never anyone behind me for the past many years. You are the first in a long time, and quite honestly I would not want it to be anyone else.”

Patroclus blushed and mumbled something unintelligible, turning Achilles around and shoving him forward. “Just keep walking, you absolute fig.”

Achilles grinned and let Patroclus push him along. “Is ‘fig’ supposed to be a compliment?”

“Shut up,” Patroclus snapped, his face feeling much hotter than he would like it to.

“I’m taking it as a compliment,” Achilles said, quite pleased with himself.

Patroclus grumbled under his breath.

“What did you say?” Achilles asked, craning his head over his shoulder to see Patroclus.

“Nothing. Just hurry up and stop talking,” Patroclus said grumpily.

“You get quite snappy when you are embarrassed,” Achilles commented, still smiling. “It’s rather endearing.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Am I really?”

“Yes. You are the worst person ever for making fun of me like this. No one has ever made fun of me like this before, and you should stop before I just leave you and head back to Opus,” Patroclus griped.

Achilles let out a soft laugh. “Oh, stop complaining, Patroclus. It’s a beautiful day, and don’t you want to see what I have to show you? We’re almost there, which is surprising, considering how many times you’ve tripped and fallen.”

Patroclus sniffed, feigning indifference. “If you don’t stop making fun of me, I might just turn and run back to Opus, and you’ll have to catch me if you ever want to show me anything.”

And suddenly his back was against a tree, his hands pinned over his head by Achilles’s strong arms, and green, green eyes were staring deep into him. Achilles was so close that Patroclus could count every one of his long, thick lashes, could feel his cool breath misting over his face.

He swallowed.

“Guess you caught me,” he whispered.

“Don’t tempt me, Patroclus,” Achilles said quietly, and there was something in his expression that Patroclus couldn’t read.

“…Tempt you with what?” Patroclus asked, a shiver running down his spine.

“With yourself.”

Patroclus held his breath.

And then Achilles released him and started walking again as if nothing had happened. Patroclus drew a shaky breath and stayed back for a few moments, trying to organize his scrambled thoughts.

_Don’t tempt me with yourself._

Did he…was that…?

“Patroclus?” Achilles called from further ahead.

Patroclus took another deep breath and followed him.

 

 

They walked downhill, the ground sloping gently beneath Patroclus’s feet. Before long, Patroclus could see a break in the trees where the sunlight was streaming through. He quickened his pace, eager to see where Achilles had brought him. He stepped out into the clearing – and gasped.

It was a small meadow sitting in a dip in the forest, the rest of the forest extending uphill on three sides and a rocky cliff rising up one hundred feet on the fourth side. A small waterfall fell down its face, the rising sun shining down on the spray and painting rainbows through the air. The water was caught by a small pond, on the near side from which a narrow stream trickled from it back into the shadows of the forest; fig trees surrounded the far side of the pond.

But that wasn’t what caused Patroclus’s breath to catch in his throat. The meadow was filled with blue, yellow, purple flowers, all blowing gently in the slight breeze. Butterflies fluttered around, their wings flashing, and bees hummed in the hazy summer heat. He saw a pair of larks chasing each other through the air before flitting to the ground.

He turned to Achilles. “It looks like Elysium,” he whispered.

Achilles’s lips curved in a soft smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank – wait, did _you_ make this?”

“I’ve had many years to do nothing,” Achilles answered simply. He walked past Patroclus into the meadow. “Come. There is more I want to show you.”

Patroclus followed him. “ _More_? So this isn’t it?”

Achilles didn’t answer.

Patroclus quickened his pace until he was walking next to Achilles. “How did you make this?”

“The waterfall was, of course, already here. I simply brought the flowers. Now come; we’re going up the cliff.”

Patroclus followed as Achilles led the way up. It was much easier than Patroclus had expected it to be; though Achilles hadn’t said anything about making a path to the top, it was evident that he’d made some adjustments to the natural cliff face and Patroclus was able to scramble up quite easily after Achilles’s long, loping strides.

The top of the cliff was unexpectedly grassy, the ground soft beneath Patroclus’s feet. Rose beds extended back to a lake – the source of the waterfall, behind which stood a line of trees where the forest finally joined together on the fourth side.

“My mother was of the sea,” Achilles said, as Patroclus stepped to the edge of the lake, taking off his sandals and wading into the cool water up to his calves.

“Thetis?” Patroclus asked.

“Yes. I was raised to love the ocean, but I’ve always loved being closer to the sun. That is why I decided to bring the roses here, instead of lower down in the meadow.”

“The roses? Why the roses?” Patroclus asked, turning to face him.

Achilles paused, tilting his head slightly to the side, a smile forming on his face. “I like them. Beautiful at first glance, bright and vivid, but also quite prickly. But despite their thorns, people are still drawn to them. Quite like you, Patroclus.”

Patroclus nearly choked. “Oh,” he said when he had recovered. “Is that why you keep coming to see me?”

Achilles pursed his lips and walked forward to join Patroclus at the edge of the lake. “Perhaps.”

Patroclus felt a blush creeping up his neck.

“’Beautiful,’ right, okay,” he mumbled.

“Would you prefer a different term?” Achilles asked, turning to face him. The sunlight reflected off of the rippling water and painted patterns of light across his skin.

Patroclus blinked. “What? No, that’s not what I was saying.” He looked down at his feet, which he could still see through nearly two feet of water. A few small fish swam around his ankles. “I’m not…well, I’m prickly, yes. But that’s it. I’m not…anything else that you said.”

Achilles tilted his head again, a crease forming between his eyes as he frowned in confusion. “You are displeased with the way you look?”

Patroclus couldn’t meet his eyes and crouched down to look at the fish instead. His chiton trailed in the water, but he didn’t care. The sun was rising; it would dry by the time he got back to Opus.

 _I’m too thin. Too small. Too weak._ He didn’t speak.

“Patroclus?” Achilles asked quietly.

“I’m not a warrior,” Patroclus mumbled.

Achilles touched his shoulder gently. “You do not need to be.”

Patroclus glanced up at him. “But my father wants me to be. He says I can’t ever be a king because I am not a warrior, and I can’t become a warrior. I would be struck down on the battlefield before I would ever land a blow on someone else.”

“But do you want to be a king?”

Patroclus grimaced. “No. Ruling never appealed to me.”

“Then there is no need to worry about it,” Achilles said simply. “Live the life you want to live, not the life your father wants you to have.”

“And is that what you’re doing?” Patroclus asked quietly.

Achilles gave him a soft smile. “You are here, so I must be.”

Patroclus’s heart missed a beat. But Achilles was already turning away. “Come, Patroclus,” he said, starting back down the cliff. “You must be hungry, and the sun is already risen. We will eat, and then you must go back to Opus.”

They had a small breakfast of figs as they walked back to Opus. Achilles stopped as the trees ended as always, watching Patroclus until he was back inside the city gates.

Patroclus did his best not to think about Achilles for the rest of the day. He was unsuccessful.

 

 

“Where are we going today?” Patroclus asked the next morning by the rabbit den.

“That depends,” Achilles said. “What would you like to do?”

Patroclus bit his lip. “I’ve been thinking…I spend so much time here with you, and yet I know basically nothing except how to follow you around. Could you…could you teach me how to survive in the forest? In case something happens, I don’t know if Paris is ever coming back but if he does and we get separated or something…”

“Patroclus.” Achilles took Patroclus’s face in his hands and looked deep into his eyes. “I will _never_ let him take you away from me.”

“What if he hurts you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Achilles said seriously. “He will not take you from me. He will not hurt you again.”

Patroclus’s heart thudded. “Okay,” he whispered.

Achilles stepped back and dropped his hands, his expression softening. “But if you want to learn, I will teach you.”

 

 

They started with Achilles teaching Patroclus how to track.

“Fruits will only get you so far,” Achilles said, and then lead him deeper into the forest where he almost immediately found a set of deer tracks. “Setting small traps for smaller animals is useful if you are traveling, but even then you need to know where and how to find them.”

“Traps?” Patroclus asked. “I’m not going to be traveling though.”

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “You did say that you wanted to learn in case we get separated.”

“Oh. Right,” Patroclus mumbled. “Okay. Teach me.”

“That is a lesson for another day. Patience, Patroclus,” Achilles said with a soft smile as Patroclus frowned in disappointment. “We have a very long time.”

 

 

It was late July by the time Achilles decided Patroclus’s traps were satisfactory and that he was ready to learn how to hunt larger game.

“Am I going to be using a spear?” Patroclus asked eagerly.

Achilles laughed softly and shook his head. “No, Patroclus. A spear requires more skill and strength than a bow, and is more dangerous, so you will be learning how to use a bow.”

That explained the weapon slung over Achilles’s shoulder. “A bow is a coward’s weapon,” Patroclus said, bristling.

“Nevertheless, it is a useful instrument for hunting larger animals that you may not yet be able to kill with a spear. Even I started with a bow before I moved onto a spear.”

Reluctantly, Patroclus nodded. “I just don’t like the idea of using a weapon that the stupid coward Menelaus used,” he muttered.

“Menelaus could also use a spear,” Achilles said, “and I can also use a bow. What makes something cowardly is not the weapon, but the warrior. And you are not a coward, so a bow cannot be a coward’s weapon in your hands.”

Patroclus huffed to mask his spark of pride and larger flush of embarrassment at Achilles’s words. “Alright, alright. Teach me how to shoot arrows.”

Achilles smirked.

“What?” Patroclus demanded. “What are you laughing at?”

Achilles just smiled and shook his head. He took the bow and quiver off from his shoulders, placing the quiver on the ground and holding the bow out to Patroclus. “Now, show me what you know.”

Patroclus took the bow awkwardly. “I don’t know anything.”

“You must have a general idea of how archery works. Show me, and aim for that tree over there.” He pointed at a trunk several meters away.

“Um. Okay.” Patroclus grasped the middle of the bow with his left hand and lifted it to shoulder level, doing his best to remember the pitiful amount he had learned from many years ago when his father still thought he had promise as a warrior. He nocked an arrow and drew the string, pleased when his arms did not shake from the effort; it was a strong bow made for Achilles and Achilles’s strength.

“Angle your arm a bit more,” Achilles murmured, stepping forward and touching the inside curve of his left elbow. “You do not want the string or arrow to be affected by the natural curve of your arm. Make sure you are pressing on the bow with the thumb side of your palm, not with your fingers. The pressure comes from the locking of your joints.”

Patroclus adjusted his grip.

“With your other hand, make sure that you are hanging onto the string by the last joint of your fingers. When you release the arrow, you must follow through with this hand to ensure a straight path for the arrow.” Gently, he adjusted Patroclus’s right hand until he was satisfied with the way it connected with the taut string.

“Now lift here,” he whispered, touching his elbow lightly. Patroclus felt his breath whispering over his cheek, felt the heat from his body.

“The stance is equally important,” he breathed, putting his hands on Patroclus’s waist and turning him slightly so he was perpendicular to the tree he was aiming for, putting his thigh between Patroclus’s legs and nudging his knees until his feet were a shoulders-width apart. Patroclus swallowed.

“Breathe, Patroclus,” Achilles laughed quietly.

Patroclus hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath, and inhaled.

Achilles’s hands were back on Patroclus’s, guiding the point of his arrow. “You aim slightly lower than you think you would, just so,” he said softly, his breath ghosting over Patroclus’s lips. He was pressed gently against Patroclus, and he could feel the beat of his heart.

Achilles stilled. “Here,” he whispered.

Patroclus released the arrow.

It flew in a straight line, fast and silent and powerful, striking the tree in the middle of its trunk with a solid thump. Patroclus let out a shaky breath and turned to Achilles. They were so close that their breaths mingled between them.

“That was perfect,” Achilles breathed. His green eyes glowed.

Patroclus’s heart pounded in his throat. They were both frozen like the marble statues lining his father’s halls. He wondered, dimly, what would happen if he closed the distance between them. He wondered if Achilles wanted to know just as badly as he did.

But then Achilles was gone, stepping back away from him to retrieve the arrow.

Patroclus closed his eyes and lowered the bow. His hands shook. The lesson continued.

Neither of them spoke of it.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You learn, you ask, you fall in love. When he teaches, and answers, does he fall in love too?

 

 

The lessons continued far into August. Although Patroclus knew about the medicinal properties of most of the relevant plants in the forest, there was much he still could learn. Achilles taught him which plants could be eaten and which could not, which plants were favored by which animals, which plants could help ward off mosquitos. He taught him about the various berries and fruits thriving in the underbrush and which trees were best for firewood or shelter. He taught him which plants to avoid and which plants to follow to get to fresh water, a precious resource in the dry August heat.

Patroclus also began hunting larger game with Achilles, Patroclus using his bow that Achilles had coached him in making, Achilles using his spear. Patroclus would strike first from a distance and Achilles would come in for the final strike if the arrow Patroclus had loosed – aimed for just behind the armpit or, if the angle was right, the back of the head – did not kill.

But the need for Achilles to finish the kill declined as time went on, and by late August, Patroclus was ready to hunt on his own.

He stalked a small boar one morning as it rooted through the dirt for earthworms and insects. He stayed low in the underbrush, carrying his bow in his left hand and being careful not to hit it against anything that would alert the boar of his presence.

The boar was halfway concealed behind a tree and some bushes, so Patroclus crept forward to get a clean shot. He ducked smoothly out of the way of some low-hanging branches and stepped over some knotted roots, quietly nocking an arrow and raising his bow.

The wind shifted, carrying Patroclus’s scent towards the boar. Its head shot up, swiveling to face Patroclus, and then it turned and ran.

But it was too late. Patroclus lifted his bow and loosed the arrow; it sailed silently through the air and struck the boar behind its shoulder. The boar stumbled, and Patroclus shot again, the arrow piercing its thick hide with ease and burying its head deep in the boar’s chest. The boar went down, and Patroclus sprang forward, drawing his knife for the kill. He reached the still-struggling boar and slid the knife into its heart; it stilled, its last breath leaving it with a soft huff.

Patroclus stood, and Achilles emerged from the trees.

“Well done, Patroclus,” he said quietly. There was a glint of pride in his eyes. “Remember when I told you to become one with the forest? You have achieved that.”

Patroclus grinned. “So am I ready for a spear yet?”

Achilles looked amused as he lifted the boar and hoisted it easily over his shoulders to carry back to his cave, where he would skin it and prepare the meat to dry. “You have been ready for a long time,” he said. “But it is too late to learn today. You must return to Opus. We will begin tomorrow.”

And they did.

 

 

“Faster, Patroclus,” Achilles said, pacing at the edge of the clearing with his spear in hand, lanky, catlike. A warrior. A god.

Patroclus, on the other hand, was lying flat on his back on the ground, his spear knocked out of his hand and the breath knocked out of his body.

“It’s been two weeks and I haven’t been able to even touch you,” he complained, still from the ground.

Achilles laughed quietly. “Yes, it’s been two weeks. _Two weeks_ , Patroclus, and you are fighting against the best warrior who ever lived. You must set reasonable expectations for yourself, or you will be forever disappointed.” He danced out of the way of a rock Patroclus had chucked at him. “Quite amazing, really, that you are so good with a bow and yet cannot hit me with a rock just a few meters away,” he commented teasingly.

Patroclus glared at him, but Achilles just gave him a dazzling smile back.

With a groan, Patroclus rolled over onto his front and pushed himself back to his feet, scrambling over to pick up his spear and standing to face Achilles again. He switched his spear to his right hand and held it out in front of him, bending his knees and leaning forward to stand on the balls of his feet the way Achilles had told him to. “Okay. Tell me what I did wrong this time. Besides tripping and falling, obviously.”

“You cannot rely on strength,” Achilles said, spinning his spear easily in his hand. “But you are quick and agile. Even now, you are surprisingly good at dodging my strikes. Use this to your advantage; your enemies will most likely be larger and stronger than you, but therefore not as fast. You can use a fighting technique that they will not have experience with, and therefore win.”

“So basically just try to be as fast as I can,” Patroclus said.

“Yes. Exactly.” Achilles spread his arms out, an open invitation. “Again,” he said.

Patroclus took a few steps forward, keeping his feet light, focused on Achilles. “Know your enemy,” Achilles had said on the very first day. “Know how he fights. Read his movements so you can predict what he’s going to do, and then move to counter it.”

He tried to anticipate what Achilles was going to do, but he did something unexpected every time he struck, and what’s worse, Achilles seemed to be able to predict Patroclus’s every move.

Patroclus groaned in frustration as Achilles knocked the spear out of his hands and flicked the tip of his own spear up to Patroclus’s chin.

“It always ends the same way,” he sighed as Achilles lowered his spear and gestured for him to pick up his own. “You knock the spear out of my hand and then put yours under my chin where I know you would kill me if we were actually enemies.”

Achilles shrugged. “That _is_ the objective of a fight, is it not?”

“Okay, okay,” Patroclus grumbled, retrieving his spear. In a fit of inspiration, he picked it up casually, straightening up, but then swung it upwards, aiming to catch Achilles across the throat. But Achilles’s hand shot up, gripping the end of the spear and stopping it barely an inch from his throat. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Faster, faster, I know,” Patroclus sighed, interrupting him.

Achilles released the spear and smiled at him. “Better, though.”

Patroclus flushed and stepped back, lowering his spear. “But still not good enough. I wouldn’t win against anyone like this, and you know it, even if I really am getting better. I need to be able to actually fight, not just use surprise and try to hit them when they’re not expecting it.”

Achilles inclined his head. “So try again.”

They circled each other, Patroclus feigning strikes that Achilles nimbly dodged. But when Achilles struck, it was everything Patroclus could do to get out of the way of his spear and not trip over his own feet in his haste to get away from the deadly point.

Frustrated, Patroclus struck out, leaping forward with his spear out in front of him. Achilles moved to knock his spear away but Patroclus drew back at the last moment and ducked under it, flipping his spear around and knocking the back end towards Achilles’s chest. Achilles arched away from it and spun his spear overhead with frightening speed, driving it towards Patroclus. Patroclus just barely managed to get his spear up and knock Achilles’s upwards, and Achilles was, just for a moment, off balance.

Seeing his opportunity, Patroclus leapt forwards and struck out with his left arm, hitting Achilles’s shoulder. He lashed out with his spear for Achilles’s chest but Achilles rolled out of the way, getting back to his feet with ease. He crouched, his spear held out in front of him, but, Patroclus was pleased to note, in the defensive position.

His triumph was short-lasted. Achilles shifted back into the offensive almost immediately and sprang forward, tapping Patroclus on his right shoulder and then left side with his spear before Patroclus had even blinked.

Stunned, Patroclus staggered backwards. He knew that if this had been a real fight, he would be dead, and he growled in disappointment.

“I almost had you,” he said.

Achilles dipped his head. “You almost did. You’re doing very well.”

“Not good enough,” Patroclus grumbled. “Come on. Fight me again.”

So Achilles did, approaching with the ease and confidence of a seasoned warrior. Patroclus watched his approach in apprehension, crouching down, prepared to spring out of the way.

Or do the opposite of what Achilles anticipated.

Achilles expected him to be on the defensive. Hell, _Patroclus_ expected himself to be on the defensive. So he would go on the offensive right from the start.

As soon as Achilles was within range, Patroclus darted forward, rolling under the oncoming strike and leaping to his feet to attack from behind. But Achilles was both strong and fast and had spun to face him, and Patroclus’s strike met empty air.

He gritted his teeth in frustration but refused to let it get the best of him. He needed a clear head in a fight; it couldn’t be clouded by anything. He lunged forward, jabbing with his spear at Achilles’s chest while kicking out at Achilles’s ankles with his left leg, trying to trip him, but it backfired; Achilles danced backwards and knocked him in the side with the end of his spear while he was unbalanced, hitting him to the ground where he found the tip of Achilles’s spear against his throat.

“Very creative,” Achilles commented, “but unfortunately, unsuccessful. You need to keep yourself balanced at all times; in trying to trip me, you put yourself in a vulnerable position.”

Patroclus pushed Achilles’s spear out of the way and got back to his feet. “I’ll hit you one day,” he promised.

Achilles stepped back with a wide smile. “We shall see, Patroclus.”

 

 

“So how did you stay this good at fighting?” Patroclus asked one particularly warm day in late September as he and Achilles walked through the forest, knawing on strips of dried boar meat that Achilles had brought from the last hunt. It was the afternoon now, Patroclus having the rest of the day off after having been busy with medical duties in the morning. “I mean, it’s not like there are regularly people who you can fight.”

“Natural talent and a little bit of practice go a long way,” Achilles said simply.

Patroclus grumbled and shook his head. “Okay, okay, you’re a naturally brilliant fighter, you don’t ever need to practice, you weren’t even taught since you figured everything out by yourself, I know. Quit bragging, would you? I would’ve expected something more encouraging for me.”

Achilles just flashed him a brilliant, cheeky smile. “What’s the point in being gifted if you aren’t allowed to brag about it?”

“You use it to help others, you lump of soggy bread,” Patroclus said, as if it was obvious.

Achilles tilted his head, pursing his lips. Patroclus dutifully ignored how kissable it made them look. “You have quite the creative insults, Patroclus,” he said, amused. “But regarding gifts, shouldn’t you be concerned with yourself first, before others?”

Patroclus looked at him. “You saved my life,” he said quietly. “Surely…surely that wasn’t just about yourself?”

Achilles stopped. He looked thoughtful. “No, it wasn’t,” he said eventually. “It was about you.”

Patroclus blushed, shaking his head. “Keep walking, Achilles. I do want to actually get some fighting done today, you know.”

“We’re not doing that today,” Achilles said.

Patroclus stopped. “What?”

“This way, Patroclus. We’re going fishing.”

Patroclus perked up and turned around to face Achilles. “With a spear? Like what you were doing that second time I actually talked to you?”

Achilles seemed amused at how excited he was. “Yes, with a spear. Now come, if you do actually want to get something done today.”

They returned to the lake by the red roses, where Achilles lead Patroclus to a small rocky overhang about one foot from the surface of the lake. Though the water of the lake was crystal clear and Patroclus could see straight to the bottom, he could tell that here, the water was several feet deep. Achilles crouched down at the edge, gesturing with a jerk of his head for Patroclus to do the same.

Patroclus crouched down next to him, putting his spear down on the ground next to him. “And now…we just wait?” he asked.

“Yes. There are plenty of fish in this lake; one will come by soon enough.”

Patroclus sniffed. “Hm. Would’ve thought grand natural talent Achilles would’ve had an easier way to catch fish than just sitting and waiting for one.”

Achilles gave him a look. “Just wait, Patroclus. You need to learn patience.”

“I _learned_ patience already with all that tracking and hunting,” Patroclus grumbled.

“No, this is different,” Achilles murmured. “This is stillness, with nothing to focus on. Now just wait, you’ll be able to move around soon enough.”

Patroclus sighed and obeyed, settling down and steeling himself for a long time of silence and stillness. But Achilles was right; before long a small fish swam into view, stopping to poke around at the lake bottom. Patroclus reached for his spear and looked at Achilles questioningly, but Achilles shook his head.

“It’s too deep for a clean hit and far too small to be worth the effort. Wait for a bigger one. Only one about as long as your forearm or longer will actually be of much use in terms of food.”

Patroclus settled back down. “I’m still not sure what to do when I actually see a fish we can eat.”

Achilles seemed surprised. “I thought you were paying attention when you saw me fishing with a spear.”

“I was more preoccupied by you actually _being_ there than by your marvelous fishing technique,” Patroclus snarked. “Besides, how exactly was I supposed to actually learn anything just from staring at you staring at the water?”

Achilles let out a soft laugh. “You really are quite grumpy, you know that?”

“What’s it to you?” Patroclus demanded, shoving his shoulder.

Achilles laughed again, casually reaching over and pushing a lock of hair back behind Patroclus’s ears. “I like it.”

Patroclus’s heart thudded at the casual touch but he did his best to hide it, turning back to the water and waiting for a bigger fish to appear.

One did just a few minutes later, swimming lazily through the cool water. Patroclus turned to Achilles excitedly, who nodded. He inched forward and raised his spear.

“Hold it just a little higher,” Achilles murmured. “You want your grip high enough that your hand will not have to enter the water to hit the fish, but you do not want it so high that your control and aim are negatively affected. Wait for it to get a little closer, and then strike. Speed is vital; as soon as the surface of the water is disturbed, it will try to swim away. You must hit it before it has the time to react.”

Patroclus nodded and held his breath as the fish drifted closer, completely unaware of the threat looming above it. When it was just below the tip of the spear, Patroclus struck, thrusting the spear downwards as fast as he could, but the fish was faster, darting away into the depths of the lake.

Patroclus sat back with a frown. “I missed,” he said, unnecessarily.

“You were close,” Achilles countered. “You will learn in time.”

 

 

Patroclus tried again, and again, and again. On the fifth time, the spearhead darted forward, piercing the fat body of a fish. But it didn’t stick, and when Patroclus jerked the spear back out of the water, the head slipped from the fish’s flesh and the fish flopped back into the lake with a splash.

“Mother of Zeus!” he exclaimed, sitting back in dismay, but Achilles was already moving. He dove in after the fish without a second thought, his body making a clean arc towards the water. As Patroclus watched, stunned, he kicked off after the fish and disappeared.

A few moments passed.

“Achilles?” Patroclus called.

There was no answer.

Patroclus stood up and scanned the lake for the head of golden hair. “Achilles?” he called again.

A moment later, there was a splash in the middle of the lake as Achilles surfaced, empty-handed but grinning widely.

“Come in, Patroclus!”

Patroclus raised his eyebrows and took a step back. “What, go swimming? I thought we were fishing!”

Achilles laughed and swam towards him, stopping a few meters from the shore. “That was just because I thought you might want to learn. I don’t need the meat; there’s plenty of boar left, and you get your meals back at Opus. Now come, it’s quite cool!”

Patroclus frowned, still unsure. “I’m not a very good swimmer. I’ve never had the chance to learn, growing up in the city.”

Achilles swam the rest of the way to the ledge, easily pulling himself up out of the water and shaking water droplets out of his hair. He was flushed and grinning, his teeth white against his golden skin. “It’s not difficult, and I am right here. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Patroclus crossed his arms. “My chiton will drag me down.”

Achilles shrugged. “Then take it off.”

Patroclus blinked. “Take – what?”

“Take it off,” Achilles repeated, still grinning.

“No. No, absolutely not,” Patroclus said.

“What, are you embarrassed?” Achilles asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“No,” Patroclus said, too forcefully and too quickly, crossing his arms even harder. “I am most definitely _not_ embarrassed. I just don’t want to, that’s all.”

Achilles laughed softly. “Look, I’ll take mine off too. Will that make you feel better?”

“What – Achilles, what are you doing? No, that’s not –”

That was _not_ what he was going for, but he wouldn’t complain. And besides, it was already too late; Achilles unfastened his chiton and slipped it from his shoulders, letting it pool at his feet. Patroclus had to force himself not to stare; wiry muscle covered his lean body, his sun-kissed skin sparkling with hundreds of water droplets from the lake. His green eyes gleamed with mischief as he saw Patroclus swallow and look away.

“Better?” he asked. “Will you come swim with me now?”

Patroclus grumbled, his cheeks hot. “Fine, fine, okay.”

Achilles’s smile widened. “Come, then.” He leapt off of the ledge and back into the lake, splashing water all over Patroclus. Patroclus spluttered indignantly, knowing it was purposeful and having half a mind to not jump in after him just for that.

But he wouldn’t do that, and he knew it. The water was cool and refreshing against his skin, so he slipped out of his chiton self-consciously and joined Achilles in the water.

To his surprise, his feet could touch the bottom, if only barely. He tiptoed awkwardly towards Achilles, struggling to keep his head above the water as the lake got deeper.

“Come on, Patroclus,” Achilles grinned. “Swim!”

“I may have forgotten how,” Patroclus muttered, but he kicked off from the bottom and moved his limbs around awkwardly, blinking with surprise as he stayed afloat. He swam towards Achilles, who was floating easily on his back, soaking up the heat. He flipped back upright as Patroclus splashed towards him, his face like the sun.

“See? It isn’t so bad, is it?”

Patroclus splashed water at him. Achilles lunged out of the way and laughed, sending a spray of water back at Patroclus. Patroclus, who was not nearly as at home in the water as Achilles, caught it full in the face.

“Hey!” he spluttered indignantly, trying quite unsuccessfully to stay afloat and wipe water from his eyes at the same time.

And then Achilles was there, his hands on Patroclus’s waist, holding him up and steady in the water so he could wipe the water from his face without drowning.

“Sorry,” he murmured with an apologetic smile. “I’d forgotten.”

Patroclus smirked and shoved at him. “You forget a lot of things, Achilles.”

“Not the important things,” Achilles said seriously. “I remember that you like the figs from that particular fig tree. I remember the gold that comes out in your eyes when the sun hits them. I remember the sound of your laugh.”

“I thought you said important things,” Patroclus said.

“They are important things,” Achilles said. “They’re about you.”

Patroclus didn’t have a response to that. Achilles released him, grinning like he hadn’t just shifted Patroclus’s entire world, and turned and dove into the water, as easily as a sea-god. He emerged a few moments later with a small crab in his palm, which he presented to Patroclus. “Snappy, like you,” he said.

The crab skittered off his palm and plopped back into the water.

“Weird, like you,” Patroclus said.

Achilles laughed. “What, no figs and soggy bread this time?”

Patroclus snorted and splashed him again. “You did say I was creative in my insults. I can’t use the same one twice, now, can I?”

Achilles tilted his head. “No. I suppose not.” He flipped backwards into the water and emerged a few yards down. “Come, Patroclus! You can see more fish here.” He waited until Patroclus had caught up to him before saying, “Open your eyes underwater. Minnows, see?” He ducked down, and a moment later Patroclus followed.

A small school of fish darted before his eyes, their sides flashing in the sunlight that streamed through the clear water, moving as if they were controlled by one mind. He found himself grinning.

“I still have to learn to fish,” he said when they both resurfaced.

Achilles turned to face him. “Of course, but we have time. The lake won’t freeze over for many months, and if you do not learn to fish before then, we will wait until next spring.” He swam to meet Patroclus and took his face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “We have all the time in the world.”

             

 

“Achilles?” Patroclus asked hesitantly as they lay in the sun later. “I…I have a question.”

“Anything, Patroclus.”

Patroclus’s heart hammered as he said his name. He said it like no one else, and Patroclus knew he would never get over it.

“Are you…human?”

Achilles stilled. He was like a statue. Patroclus didn’t know if he was breathing. “Why would you think otherwise?”

Patroclus hesitated, unable to look at his face, so he settled for looking at his hands instead. “You said you’re twenty-five, but you…you don’t act like it. The way you fight…it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s as if you’ve had centuries to become familiar with your body, to perfect your skill with a spear. And…when I saw you, after five years, you looked unchanged. Men don’t stop changing when they turn twenty. They look different. But not you. And your friends, the people you met in these woods…you didn’t answer, but I think they’re dead. So many of them, but I haven’t heard of any. Of course, they could just be travelers, but…” He looked up to see Achilles already looking at him with a small smile on his face.

“Are you human?” Patroclus repeated.

“Does it matter?”

Patroclus hesitated. _Did_ it matter? At the end of all things, did it matter if he was a human or if he was a god?

“No, not really,” he whispered.

Achilles smiled, his teeth a dazzling white against red lips, and the sunlight hit his face and hair and turned him to gold.

Patroclus could not look away.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said softly. There was something in his voice that Patroclus couldn’t place, something different about the way he said his name.

His breath hitched.

Achilles shifted towards him, an infinitesimally small movement, his eyes questioning.

He was on the edge of a cliff. He saw himself about to fall.

No, not about to. He was already falling.

So he closed his eyes, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to Achilles’s.

It was a simple, chaste kiss, questioning and unsure and sweet like honey. Patroclus pulled away after a moment, swallowing hard as he saw Achilles staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Do you…was that…okay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Achilles breathed. “Let me kiss you again.”

So Patroclus let him. He leaned into it this time, his tongue teasing Achilles’s mouth open, and a moment later Achilles’s lips parted. Patroclus pushed inside, exploring and tasting, feeling Achilles smile as Patroclus let out a groan of desire.

“Achilles,” Patroclus gasped, threading his fingers through the soft golden hair and pulling Achilles down to him.

Achilles’s hands were all over Patroclus, feeling out the curves of muscle. They dipped under Patroclus’s chiton and Patroclus gasped against Achilles’s lips at the sudden heat on his skin, a shudder running through his body. Achilles pressed against him, pulled him close, mouthing along Patroclus’s jaw and down his neck while Patroclus held him.

But then, abruptly, Achilles let out a quiet laugh and pulled back. “Enough, Patroclus,” he murmured with a smile.

Reluctantly, Patroclus let go. “Achilles, I –”

“Hush, _philtatos_ ,” Achilles whispered, silencing Patroclus with a kiss. “I don’t want to go too far too soon.” Patroclus felt his smile. “You’re too intoxicating. We need to take it slow.”

Patroclus sat back, fighting the blush rising in his neck. “I’m intoxicating?”

Achilles laughed softly. “Yes, Patroclus. You make me dizzy just looking at you.”

Forget fighting the blush. It was too late for that.

Achilles touched his cheek gently, his eyes glowing. “You are like no one I have ever met before,” he murmured.

“I think it goes without saying that it’s the same for me,” Patroclus said quietly.

Achilles gave him a dazzling smile. “I already knew that,” he said.

Patroclus snorted and swatted a hand at him, which he caught, pressing his lips to it tenderly.

“I’m being serious,” Patroclus said, “and I’m not just talking about your fighting, or your hunting, or your inhuman beauty. I’m talking about _you_. The person you are. You’re just…I already told you that you feel familiar. And I mean it. We’ve only known each other for a few months, but I feel like I’ve known you my entire life and longer. Even longer than Briseis, and if I knew her the rest of my life and not you, I would still know you better.”

Achilles hummed softly. “If given the choice, I would know you for the rest of my life.”

Patroclus felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

_I would know you for the rest of my life._

_We have all the time in the world._

And the dreaded words his father had uttered to him a month earlier.

It was late September. He was to marry Deidameia in early December. He had thought he would still be able to see Achilles even after fathering a child, but at the time he had not known a crucial piece of information that he now did.

Deidameia was of Skyros. An island, surrounded by miles of rough open sea. That, he had known.

What he hadn’t known was that Deidameia was not coming to him. He was going to Deidameia, and Skyros.

 

 

His time with Achilles would come to an end in two months.

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to choose between a love and a nation. It's the same as choosing between what's easy and what's right; either way, you have to live with your decision.

 

 

Queen Philomena was ill again. She had fallen sick the day after the lake and Patroclus had, like before, been kept away from her until Polarius had deemed her strong enough.

Patroclus woke to a knock on his door early one October morning, and Briseis poked her head in a moment later.

“Oh, you haven’t left yet, good. Your father is looking for you. It’s about your mother.”

“What? How is she?” he demanded, sitting upright.

“No idea. Hurry up.”

Patroclus leapt up, pulling on his chiton as he ran towards his father’s room, stopping when he saw his father’s scowl and Polarius’s worried frown.

“Your mother wants to see you,” Polarius said gruffly. “She’s waiting for you in your chambers. But not too long – she needs to rest.”

Patroclus breathed out a sigh of relief; she was okay. He nodded and started forward, but Menoitius’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked at his father questioningly.

“Leave us, Polarius,” Menoitius ordered. “There are matters that I must discuss with my son.”

Polarius bowed and retreated, and Menoitius waited until the doors had closed before turning back to his son and speaking.

“I’ve noticed your systematic disappearance from the castle these past few months,” he said quietly. “You are a man, Patroclus, and I will not ask who you are seeing, but I would ask you to remember that you are leaving to Skyros in less than two months to be married. You would do well to not get attached to this woman and to tell her, for her sake, that you are leaving. Know that you will not be able to see her again.”

Patroclus bristled. “And if I don’t want to be married?” he demanded. “You said so yourself, I’m a man now. You can’t just marry me off to some random woman somewhere; I’m in control of my own life. I’m twenty-two and –”

“And I am still your king!” his father thundered, his eyes flashing in anger. “I am your father and your king, and you _will_ obey me.”

Patroclus forced himself not to flinch. “Fine,” he snarled. “You can make me go there, but after I marry her, I am no longer your subject. You can’t make me stay.”

“Oh, yes I can,” his father hissed, his voice dangerously soft. “You need to start thinking for people other than yourself. You’re a disgrace, Patroclus, the way you are now. Yes, you are a man, but you are a prince of Opus, and right now, you are one who has no idea what is going on, no idea why his king does what he does. A prince marries for politics, Patroclus.”

“Yeah, your politics,” Patroclus spat back. “I’m a disgrace, I know, and you want me married to a high-blooded woman to bring favor and honor to your name through our child, since you don’t believe I can bring you any.”

“It’s not just me. All of Opus may know about your disgrace, but King Lycomedes does not. He thinks his daughter is to be married to a prince of a powerful people. That is the only reason the truce between us will stand.”

At this, Patroclus was taken aback. “Truce?”

Menoitius looked disgusted. “Do you see? You have no idea what is going on.”

“And whose fault is that?” Patroclus shot back. “You were the one who thought I would never make a warrior, never make a king. You were the one who sent me off to the healers and never actually bothered to teach me the ways of your court and the ways of our people. I come to you, wanting to help you, wanting to know about the state of this city, and you send me away saying that politics are not for healers, not for me. I followed the path you sent me on since I was a young boy.”

“Yes, I sent you on it because you are _weak_ ,” Menoitius snarled. “You have your mother to thank for that.”

Rage rose in Patroclus’s veins. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about Mother like that,” he hissed. “You may be our king, but she is our queen. You would do well not to forget that, _Your Highness_. Now, tell me what in Hell is going on that makes me have to marry this woman.”

Menoitius glowered, but to Patroclus’s surprise, spoke. “Skyros and Opus have never been particularly friendly, as you should know from your lessons, if you were paying any attention. Earlier this year, one of our citizens traveled there and murdered one of the sons of a powerful family in Skyros, one that was great friends with the king. He did not say it outright, but when you have been king for as long as I have, you know things; Lycomedes was ready to declare war on us. I also knew that his daughter was looking to marry. I offered your hand in marriage in exchange for a truce.”

Patroclus’s heart sank, his rage fading into despair. “So…if the marriage is off, there’s war between Opus and Skyros.”

Menoitius, for the first time ever, looked pleased. “Yes. Which is why you will be marrying Deidameia and staying on Skyros to bring me honor and our nation peace.”

Patroclus lowered his head, a pang in his heart. He knew his father was right, and he knew that however much he loved Achilles, he would never be able to live with himself knowing he had doomed thousands of people to death for a war he could have prevented. “Yes, Father.”

His father straightened. “Good.”

Patroclus still couldn’t meet his father’s eyes. “May I see my mother now?”

His father nodded and stepped back, and Patroclus walked up the stairs leading to his mother’s chambers. He knocked twice and then pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

Philomena lay on her bed, propped up with pillows, the covers drawn up to her chest. She was dark-skinned like Patroclus but now somehow managed to look pale, her hands fluttering delicately in the air as she reached towards her son.

“Patroclus,” she whispered, her voice shaky and weak.

Patroclus knelt by her side and took her hands in his. “I’m here, Mother,” he said softly, forcing his confrontation with his father out of his mind. “How are you feeling? Has Polarius been taking good enough care of you or am I going to have to give him a lecture?”

“He’s your mentor, Patroclus, show some respect,” she scolded weakly.

Patroclus ducked his head with a grin. “Sorry, Mother.”

“How have you been doing?” his mother asked. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“I’ve been doing well.” It was a slight lie; he was going to be leaving soon, and that made things a bit less than “well,” but she didn’t need to worry about that. Patroclus brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. “I’ve been fine. More than fine, actually, I’ve been great. Learned some more about various plants in the forest, learned how to hunt, learned how to fight…you know, things like that.”

“That’s wonderful,” she whispered. “Who’s been teaching you? They must be wonderful.”

Patroclus’s lips curved upwards. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, he’s wonderful.”

Philomena smiled and reached for his face. “I’m sorry I’ve been ill so often. I wish I could spend more time with you before your new wife starts to take up all of your time, but that’s part of being a king, I suppose. And I’m sure you’ll still be able to spare some time to see your poor mother when you’re not too busy looking after the city?”

Patroclus felt like his heart had stopped. Menoitius hadn’t told her. She didn’t know he was leaving.

“I heard she’s beautiful,” she whispered, unaware of Patroclus’s reaction. “I’m so proud of you, Patroclus. Look at you, marrying a beautiful woman who will become your queen. And you’ve grown so strong, I thought you were a healer?” His mother let out a quiet laugh that quickly disintegrated into a cough.

“Shh, just rest,” Patroclus murmured, touching her cheek gently and holding up the cup of tea on her bed stand for her to drink. His heart hurt as he looked at her.

Philomena smiled weakly and drank, cupping his cheek with a cold, thin hand. Patroclus pressed his hand on top of it, leaning into her touch.

“It’s alright, Patroclus,” she whispered. “I’m just a little sick, but I’ll get better. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“No, Mother, don’t apologize,” Patroclus pleaded. “You’ll get better, you just said. You’re going to be fine.” He smiled at her encouragingly. “And you have the best healers in Opus looking after you – me and Polonius. We’ll take care of you.”

“I wish Polarius would let you see me more often,” she said quietly.

Patroclus bit his lip. “I’ll do my best to convince him.”

“I love you, Patroclus,” his mother murmured with a soft smile. “You’re such a good son.”

Patroclus closed his eyes and kissed her hand. “Only thanks to you, Mother.”

There was a knock on the door, and a moment later Polarius poked his head in. “Patroclus?”

Patroclus looked at him and gave him a nod, and he retreated. Patroclus turned back to his mother and stood, kissing her forehead. “I’ll leave you to rest now,” he murmured. “I’ll come to see you again soon.”

His mother smiled. She was asleep by the time Patroclus closed the door behind him.

“She wants to see me more often,” he said fiercely as soon as he saw Polarius in the hall.

Polarius shook his head. “She’s weak and needs her rest.”

Patroclus bristled. “I’m a healer, Polarius! This is what you trained me for, isn’t it? What’s the point of being a healer if I can’t even help my own mother?”

Polarius hesitated. “It’s not good for you to see your mother like this,” he said quietly.

“I’ve seen much worse,” Patroclus snapped. “And you don’t think all those people I’ve treated were mothers to someone? Or fathers, sisters, brothers, children?” He flung his hands into the air in exasperation. “It doesn’t matter that she’s _my_ mother. It’s still the same; she’s sick, and it goes against my very nature as a healer to just sit back and do nothing to help her.”

The old man sighed. “It’s not all on me, Patroclus. Your father doesn’t think it’s a good idea either.” He shook his head apologetically, and then spoke hesitantly. “Your mother is…a soft woman. Too soft for a king.”

“What does that have to do with –” Patroclus broke off as he realized what Polarius was saying. The same thing as his father had said earlier, actually. He raised his eyebrows incredulously.

Polarius sighed again. “It’s your father, not me.” His eyes were gentle. “I’m sorry, Patroclus. Even I have to listen to the king sometimes.”

“So he’s going to let her _suffer_ and not let me do anything to _help_?” Patroclus shouted, not caring that several passing servants turned and stared at him. “Come on, Polarius! He can’t be that thick! You’ve been looking after her day and night. You could use some help; surely he’d see the sense in that?”

Polarius closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips against his temple. “I’ll talk to him.”

Patroclus took a deep breath. “Fine. Thank you, Polarius.”

Polarius just nodded.

 

 

Achilles noticed Patroclus’s mood when he saw him later that morning.

“What’s wrong, Patroclus?” he asked.

Patroclus sighed and sat down on a rock. “Just…a lot going on.”

Achilles sat cross-legged on the ground beside him and leaned his head against Patroclus’s hip, looking up at him. “Talk to me.”

“It’s…it’s my mother. And…and my father, too, really, but that’s nothing new, he’s been that way my entire life. And then there’s the whole thing with –” He broke off and shook his head. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

“No, Patroclus,” Achilles murmured. “Please. Talk to me.”

Patroclus took a deep breath. “Okay. Well, my mother…she’s sick. She’s been sickly her entire life, but it’s been getting worse since the new year. And it’s not like just some common thing where you’re supposed to get better after a few days. With her, it lasts for weeks, and sometimes months…I don’t know when she’s going to get better, if she ever will. My father doesn’t want me to see her, thinks it’s not good for me to see her like that or that she’s going to make me weak or something, and –” He broke off before he said what he was thinking.

“And what?” Achilles pressed gently.

_I’m leaving her in less than two months. I’m going to Skyros to be married to Deidameia, to be forgotten, to be blown away in the sands of time, instead of spending my life with you. I’m leaving Briseis. I’m leaving you. Most likely I’ll never see this place or its people ever again, and my mother doesn’t know. You don’t know._

“Nothing,” he said. He stood up and dusted off the back of his chiton. “I don’t want to talk about it. My mother’s sick, and I’m worried. That’s all it is, nothing more.”

Achilles stood up after him. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I know that’s not it, but I won’t push it.” He touched Patroclus’s hand gently, and Patroclus took it gratefully.

_I have less than two months left of this. Of you._

“What are we doing today? More fighting practice?”

Achilles shrugged. “Whatever you like, Patroclus.”

“Can we go back to the meadow?” Patroclus asked. “It’s just…it’s peaceful there. Quiet. Somewhere I don’t have to worry about anything, and that’s…what I need right now.”

_Do I tell you? Or would it be easier for you if I just disappeared? Would you come looking for me, or would you let me go like I’ll have to let you go?_

Achilles gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “We will go to the meadow.”

 

 

Patroclus lay flat on his back in the soft green grass at the edge of the lake, listening to the gentle sounds of the waves lapping against the shore, looking up at the blue, blue sky. He wondered if the sky above Skyros was this blue, or if the ocean waves sounded the same.

He looked over at Achilles to see him already watching him. Achilles gave him a small smile, and Patroclus looked back up at the sky.

“You never told me,” he murmured.

Achilles turned onto his side and propped his head up on his elbow. “Told you what?”

“You never told me if that sunset place had a name. Or if this place has a name.”

“You never asked me if this place had a name,” Achilles said with a smile.

Patroclus looked at him again. “Well, I’m asking you now.”

Achilles shrugged. “I’ve never needed a name for each of them.”

“Oh.” Patroclus turned back to the sky and reached his hand out for Achilles to take. Achilles grasped it and brought it close to his chest, kissing it and holding it tight. Patroclus lay there with him, not wanting this moment to end, not wanting to ever leave him.

Achilles fell asleep, his eyelashes fluttering shut. His grip on Patroclus’s hand slackened and his head drooped to the ground, his chest rising and falling with gentle breaths. A breeze swept across the lake, sending up tiny sprays into Patroclus’s face and ruffling Achilles’s hair.

Patroclus rolled over and touched him gently, tracing his eyebrows, his nose, his lips, a soft smile coming to his face as he watched Achilles sleep. Like this, quiet, vulnerable, it was hard to reconcile him with the Achilles in the legends.

He looked like a boy. A boy who had seen and done too much, perhaps, but just a boy. A boy he didn’t want to leave.

_When I leave, will you come with me?_

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Achilles’s forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Achilles rolled over and kept sleeping.

 

 

Briseis came to him that night.

“Patroclus?” she whispered through the door. “Pat, please tell me you’re in there, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Patroclus groaned and rolled over, blinking sleep from his eyes. It looked to be past midnight, but if Briseis had come now and was saying it was important, it was probably important. He slipped out of bed and put his chiton back on. “Yeah, come in.”

Briseis opened the door and came into his room cautiously, closing the door softly behind her and sitting down on Patroclus’s bed. “Hey,” she said quietly.

Patroclus hmphed. “Okay, what’s so important that you had to wake me up for it?”

She winced. “Pat…you’re not going to like this, but…I found something, and you need to hear this. And I’m sorry, I know I said I trusted you and I _do_ , I’m just…I’m worried about you, and I was just trying to keep you safe.”

“Just get to the point, Briseis,” Patroclus murmured tiredly. “I want to go back to sleep.”

“I…I did some more reading on Achilles.”

Patroclus stared at her. “Briseis, what? Are you seriously still trying to convince me to stop seeing him? We – I love him, Briseis. Nothing is going to change that.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. But you need to hear this.”

“Nothing you say is going to change my mind,” Patroclus said.

“You need to hear this,” Briseis pleaded.

Patroclus shook his head and stood. “Briseis, listen –”

“No, you listen to me, Patroclus. I think you’ve been distancing yourself from the truth because you’re scared of it. You want to love him so you only see the good parts of him. You need to be aware of the rest of it. Please, Pat. For me.”

At that, Patroclus sighed and sat back down. “Fine. What?”

Briseis bit her lip. “I…you know about the Trojan War, right? I told you about it before. But there’s something that isn’t in the books. I asked the librarians about it to find out.” She took a deep breath. “So you know I told you that no one knows what happened to him after the war, right? And most people just say he disappeared or something.”

“No, some people say he’s been seen afterwards,” Patroclus mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Shut up, I’m not done yet. And anyways, that proves my point even more. Quiet – I’ll get to it. According to common legends, he disappeared. No one knows what happened, whether he died or not. But I don’t think that’s what happened. I don’t think he just died. See, if he was really half-god, maybe he’s…somehow…managed to survive. Maybe your Achilles is the same.”

“I thought we’d already gone over this,” Patroclus grumbled. “And I asked him about it. I asked him how old he was, and he said he’s twenty-five. He might be the same as the Achilles in the legends. Hell, he most likely _is_ the same Achilles as in the legends. But I don’t care.”

Briseis shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. There’s more. Achilles had a lover.”

Patroclus frowned. “His beautiful wife who no one else could think to touch, you mean?”

“No,” she said forcefully. “A lover. Before the war and during the war. Well, during the war until he was killed, at least. See, what happened was that they were both warriors. Achilles may have been the best warrior of his generation and the best warrior in history, but his lover rivaled him in ruthlessness and bloodthirstiness. But during the war he was killed. Achilles destroyed Troy right after, in rage I guess, and then he disappeared.”

Patroclus was still frowning. “I don’t see how this has to do with anything.”

“He disappeared right after his lover was killed, Patroclus,” she whispered. “And yes, he’s supposedly been sighted throughout the centuries, and it’s always been just outside of Opus. Patroclus, his lover was born in Opus.”

“I don’t…are you trying to warn me that he’s immortal?”

Briseis shook her head and put her hand on his knee. “You know that possibility already, Patroclus. What I’m saying is…they had a connection like nothing else, and his loss must have destroyed him. Call me crazy if you want, but I think he’s looking for him.”

Patroclus snorted. “What, looking for his dead lover?”

“Yes – well, kind of. I think he’s been looking for a…a replacement. The librarians gave me some old books when I went to them, filled with stuff from the war. Directly taken from people’s journals and such. Everything I saw about Achilles and his lover said they were –”

“Wait,” Patroclus interrupted. “Does this lover have a name? It’s just…weird, talking about him and not using his name.”

Briseis rolled her eyes. “No. He was just referred to with the letter P. Which is an interesting coincidence, is it not?” she continued. “And that’s adding to my point, which I’ll get to, if you let me. Achilles and his lover were always together and knew each other like nothing ever before. Could you imagine being with someone like that and then losing them? It’s no wonder that Achilles is looking for a replacement.”

“Don’t call me a _replacement_ ,” Patroclus snapped.

“No, that’s not –” Briseis broke off with a sigh. “What I’m saying is, I’m not sure Achilles wants you for _you_. I think he might want you to replace the lover he lost so many years ago. And I’m afraid, Pat, I’m scared for you. Because if he wants you to replace him and the man you’re replacing is a psychopathic _murderer_ …” She shook her head helplessly. “Have you ever considered that maybe he’s only treating you well so that you trust him? So that you get close to him, so he can change you?”

“He wouldn’t do that to me. He loves me.”

“And he loved the other man, too,” Briseis whispered. “I just…I don’t want you to become like that. The way you are, Pat, you’re gentle. You’re kind, sweet, caring…I mean yes, you can be snappy and rude and temperamental, but deep down you’re _good_. You’re a healer, not a killer. I don’t want you to change. I don’t want you to become what he wants you to become.”

Patroclus clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palm until it hurt. “No. No, he wouldn’t do that. And I’m not leaving him.”

Briseis’s voice was pained. “Pat, I…I don’t want you to become like that. Please, Pat.”

Patroclus shook his head, unable to meet her eyes but set in his answer. “I will not leave him. Not now.” No, not now, when they had less than two months left together.

He heard Briseis stand, and a moment later she was crouched in front of him. “Look at me, Pat,” she pleaded. “At least have the decency to look me in the eye.” She waited, refusing to speak until he did so.

“What do you see in him?” she whispered. “Even after what I just told you, what do you see? If it’s just his beauty now, there are plenty of beautiful men.”

“None as beautiful as him,” Patroclus said quietly. “And it’s not just his beauty. He makes me happy. He teaches me things, and I feel less alone when I’m with him.” He missed the sharp, pained intake of breath as he said that. “I’m just…I feel like I can be myself when I’m with him. I don’t have to worry about anything, and I feel safe. He takes care of me, Briseis. He saved my life when Paris attacked me, and he was willing to die for me. He’s taught me so much.” He sighed and looked down at his hands. “I feel like I belong with him. When I’m with him, I feel like with just the two of us, we can conquer the world. When he’s beside me, I feel like nothing can stop us. I feel invincible. And I feel like everything is going to be okay as long as we’re together.”

_I’m going to miss him so much._

He looked up into Briseis’s eyes. “That is what it is like to be loved by a god.”

Briseis’s eyes glistened. “Don’t you see, Patroclus? That’s what you don’t understand, and I do. Gods are unpredictable. You cannot love a god. Not like that. And he is not a god. That’s what scares me, Patroclus; you see him as a god and he is not one.”

_It doesn’t matter. A rose doesn’t care if it grows towards a candle or a sun, and the sun doesn’t care if it loves a wolf or an ant. That’s what it is, Briseis. That’s what our love is._

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How long does it take to know someone? How long does it take to know yourself? What if someone and yourself are one and the same?
> 
> And more importantly, when you do know someone, how are you supposed to leave them?

 

 

It wasn’t easy for Polarius to convince Menoitius to let Patroclus help him in treating his mother, but eventually Menoitius relented, and so Patroclus’s mornings became devoted to seeing his mother, leaving his evenings free to visit Achilles. It was a change, but Patroclus liked it better, sneaking out after dinner instead of early morning. It seemed more fitting, somehow, doing things both literally and figuratively in the dark.

Patroclus went back into the forest one evening in late October to see Achilles already waiting for him by the rabbit den, his skin bathed in the eerie silver moonlight.

“You’re here early,” Patroclus commented.

Achilles shrugged and held out a hand for Patroclus to take. “It’s going to be cold tonight. A frost is coming. I thought we should spend the evening inside.”

“Fine with me,” Patroclus murmured, taking his hand and letting him lead him into the forest. “Where are we going?”

“To the cave. It’ll be warmer in there.”

“Hm. And then I’ll have to walk all the way back in the cold later tonight. Your cave is pretty far, you know, and the night is only going to get colder.”

Achilles stopped and tilted his head. “We could go somewhere else; I know of some other shelters that we could take refuge in. Or you could stay the night, if you do not have any pressing duties tomorrow morning. I will wake you early enough to get back to Opus in time to see your mother.”

Patroclus hesitated, and then nodded. “Your cave it is.”

 

             

Achilles settled down on the lynx pelt carpet and pulled Patroclus down beside him, drawing the deerskin blanket over their shoulders before leaning back against the wall of the cave. Patroclus leaned into Achilles, his shoulder fitting neatly against Achilles’s chest and his chin settling against his neck.

“I never knew you were one for cuddles,” Achilles laughed quietly.

“It’s a rare thing,” Patroclus mumbled, shifting closer to him.

Achilles laughed again. “Who knew, snappy little Patroclus is really so soft on the inside? You’re like a porcupine, so prickly at first glance but really quite adorable.”

Patroclus pushed him. “Shut up, or I’ll stop cuddling you,” he threatened.

Achilles closed his lips, still grinning.

“So, Achilles, I have something to ask you.”

Achilles was silent.

Patroclus shot him a look and pushed him again. “I was joking, Achilles, you can talk. But I’m being serious now. I have something to ask you, and it’s important.”

“Anything, Patroclus. You know you can ask me anything.”

Patroclus took a deep breath. “Alright. But I need you to promise me something first. Promise me that you’ll answer me truthfully, and that you won’t hide things from me. I need to know the truth.”

“I cannot promise you that,” Achilles murmured. “I’m sorry. I will tell you what I can, but there are things that you are better off not knowing. Trust me, Patroclus.”

Patroclus hesitated. “I…fine. Okay. But you’ll tell me all that you can?”

“Of course, Patroclus.” Achilles kissed the top of his head.

“Okay.” Patroclus took a deep breath. “How old are you?”

Achilles looked confused. “I told you already. I’m twenty-five.”

“And how long have you been twenty-five?” Patroclus asked quietly. “Honestly. How long have you been twenty-five? And don’t give me all that about your birthday being a few months ago, I know that. I remember that. How long, really?”

Achilles’s expression went blank and he stilled. He looked down for a long moment, before he answered softly, “Almost two thousand years.”

Patroclus’s breath left his body in a soft gasp. “Two thousand years,” he repeated. “You’ve…so you really are Achilles. The one from the legends. You really are…”

“I am,” Achilles whispered.

Patroclus felt a chill run down his spine. “Are you…are you immortal?”

Achilles didn’t answer.

“Please, Achilles. I need to know. Are you immortal?”

A soft smile graced Achilles’s stone features, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “I am.”

“So…you’re not human. Are you? I mean, you can’t be human. No human can be immortal. It’s not possible.”

Achilles turned to face Patroclus, and his eyes were empty. “No,” he murmured. “No, I am not human. Not fully, anyway. My mother was a sea goddess. Thetis.” He searched Patroclus’s face for a reaction. “Does that scare you?”

“A little bit,” Patroclus whispered.

Achilles turned away again. “You are a wiser Patroclus, then.”

Patroclus frowned, his brow furrowing. “A wiser Patroclus? What does that mean?” Achilles didn’t answer, so he nudged him. “Achilles, answer me. What do you mean, a wiser Patroclus? Is it good that you scare me a little? Is that what you mean?”

“Patroclus…I said I would answer what I could. That is all I can say.”

Patroclus drew back. “I…okay. I won’t ask anything else. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Achilles murmured, turning and cupping Patroclus’s cheek tenderly. He smiled suddenly, his teeth flashing white, all coldness gone from his face. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

Patroclus blushed and pushed Achilles’s hand away in embarrassment. “Shut up.”

“I’m being serious,” Achilles said, turning Patroclus to face him. “I love you so much, Patroclus.”

“You shouldn’t,” Patroclus mumbled. “What’s there to love about me, anyway? You…you just admitted that you’re half god. What could someone like you see in me? And after two thousand years?”

Achilles smiled and touched their foreheads together. “I love _you_ , Patroclus. I know my eyes are like emeralds, Patroclus, plenty of people have told me that in the past. Many jealous women and many jealous men. But you…your eyes are full of secrets and shadows. They’re dark and mysterious and hide so much, but then the light hits them and they turn to gold.” He laughed as Patroclus blushed. “And your skin, soft like the night with a scattering of stars across your face. It’s like raven’s wings have blessed you.”

Patroclus swatted a hand at him. “Shut _up_ , Achilles, you’re embarrassing me.”

Achilles laughed and lay down on his back, pulling Patroclus down beside him. “Your laugh is like the trickling of a stream in summer and is just as warm as the June winds,” he continued, dodging Patroclus’s elbow. “If I am like the moon, you are the sun that I need to shine, and if you are the moon, I am the tides that need you to rise.” He held Patroclus down and buried his face in his neck, still laughing. “I love you, Patroclus. Forever.”

Patroclus gave up fighting him and wrapped his arms around Achilles to hold him tight instead, swallowing the lump in his throat at Achilles’s words. “Forever is a long time for you.”

“So? Does that matter?” Achilles murmured, nosing at the sensitive skin beneath Patroclus’s jaw. “I said forever, so I meant forever.”

_Do I do this? Even now, while I know I must leave him? Am I strong enough for this?_

Patroclus already knew the answer. He had already leapt off of the cliff long ago, and his fingers tangled themselves in Achilles’s golden hair. “Tell me more,” he whispered.

He felt Achilles’s smile against his neck. “Alright,” he breathed. “I’ll tell you more.” He took one of Patroclus’s hands in his own. “This. This is strong and nimble, like a musician’s. I’ve wondered, so many times, Patroclus, how it would feel to have this over me, touching my skin, pulling my hair.”

Patroclus’s breath caught in his throat.

“And this,” Achilles continued, touching Patroclus’s lips with his fingertips before replacing them with his mouth. “Soft and sweet like honey. I’ve wanted for so long,” he whispered between kisses, “to feel them against my skin, tasting me, claiming me. They keep me up at night, you know,” he continued, his breaths coming faster. “I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.”

Patroclus’s pulled Achilles down and kissed him harder, something hot shooting down and pooling in his stomach.

Achilles’s hands moved to Patroclus’s thighs. “And this,” he gasped, his hips grinding against Patroclus’s. “Strong and lean, like a dancer’s, like a warrior’s. I’ve waited, wondering, imagining, what they would feel like around my hips or pressed against the back of my thighs as you pushed into me. I dream about you, Patroclus, wanting you to fuck me.”

Patroclus arched up towards him, his hands pulling at Achilles’s clothes even as he tried to wriggle his way out of his own. “Touch me, Achilles,” he whispered, and Achilles’s hand was between his legs, pulling moans from his throat. Their bodies met again, skin flush against skin, and Patroclus felt a shudder go through Achilles at the sudden heat.

Achilles kissed his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin just above his collarbone before kissing down his chest. His tongue swiveled skillfully around a nipple and Patroclus gasped, writhing beneath him. Achilles’s breath was hot against his skin, sending sensation shooting through his body in ways he never thought possible, and when Achilles kissed down his stomach and licked teasingly at his erect length, he saw stars.

But Achilles didn’t take him in his mouth. Not yet. He kissed around at the sensitive skin on the inside of Patroclus’s thighs, his hands gripping Patroclus’s hips one moment and running smoothly over his stomach the next.

“Hurry up,” Patroclus demanded, hips bucking upwards involuntarily as Achilles teasingly gave his length a stroke with a skilled hand.

“Not yet, Patroclus,” Achilles murmured with a sly smile, planting a kiss on the left side of Patroclus’s hips and then his right, his hands slipping under him and gripping his ass. “Be patient. We have all night, remember?” He grinned, his tongue darting out to lick at the fluid leaking from the tip of Patroclus’s cock.

Patroclus’s breath caught in his throat and his hips bucked upwards again, prompting Achilles to hold him down. He writhed underneath him, aching for the touch that danced so cruelly around him.

“Please, Achilles,” he begged.

And, finally, Achilles obeyed. His head plunged down and he took Patroclus’s full length in his mouth with seemingly no effort, his throat working and his tongue skillfully teasing. Patroclus choked, his hands fisting the lynx pelt carpet and his head flung back as Achilles began to suck.

“Oh Gods, Achilles,” he managed, doing his best to stay still and not thrust into Achilles’s throat, even though he seemed to have a remarkable lack of gag reflex. “Gods, Achilles, _yes_ …”

Achilles’s head bobbed up and down and Patroclus’s fingers released the pelts, tangling in his hair instead as he hurtled towards the edge.

“Achilles,” he gasped, feeling the heat inside of him building at an alarming pace. “Achilles, I can’t – I’m not going to last like this –”

Achilles released him with a wet pop. His cheeks were flushed and his lips wet, his eyes wide and his pupils blown. Patroclus thought he had never looked more beautiful, and pulled him back up to kiss him forcefully.

“I want you, Patroclus,” Achilles whispered. “Please. I want you to have me.”

Patroclus stilled. “Are you…are you sure?”

“Yes.” Achilles was moving against Patroclus, grinding against him, touching him with his hands, kissing his face. His breath came hot and fast. “Take me, Patroclus, please. I need you.”

Patroclus’s heart hammered. “I…oil, something. Anything we could use as lubricant,” he managed, his voice tight as Achilles kissed him, stroked him.

Achilles was already prepared. Still kissing Patroclus, he reached over, fumbling around for a bit before producing a small vial of oil from somewhere in the vicinity, Patroclus didn’t see, he was too busy kissing Achilles. He handed it to Patroclus who unstoppered it and poured a little into his palm.

“You were prepared, weren’t you?” he laughed.

Achilles grinned, still kissing him, drawing back only when Patroclus pushed up lightly on his chest.

“Have you…have you done this before?” Patroclus asked uncertainly.

“Yes. Many years ago. Have you?”

Patroclus blushed. “Yes. Once. Also many years ago, although my many years is not quite as many as yours.” He coated his fingers and cock with the oil. “How do you want it?”

“I want to see you,” Achilles murmured, touching their foreheads together. “I always want to see you. Is that alright?”

Patroclus huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s definitely alright. More than alright.” He pushed up on Achilles and flipped him onto his back, straddling him and looking down on him with a smile, his face flushed. He kissed Achilles, his fingers locking with Achilles’s while his other hand slipped down, teasing down Achilles’s side and rubbing his hips, squeezing his thighs as he teased at Achilles’s entrance.

“Just – just hurry up, Patroclus,” Achilles gasped, bucking his hips upwards.

Patroclus grinned against his lips and pulled away. “You’re so needy, Achilles.”

Achilles writhed and whined as Patroclus’s fingers brushed against his entrance again, rubbing lightly around the hole. His legs fell open. “ _Patroclus_ ,” he pleaded.

Patroclus laughed again and licked at Achilles’s neck, nipping the delicate golden skin. He kissed harder, sucking bruises, marking him as his own. He pushed a finger into Achilles, grinning at his subsequent gasp. “Like that?” he asked with a smile. Achilles moaned, and Patroclus moved down his body, kissing and licking, until his mouth found Achilles’s length.

Achilles’s body jerked and his mouth opened in a gasp, his hands gripping either side of Patroclus’s head, holding him while he sucked.

Patroclus pushed another finger inside and Achilles cried out, his back arching off the ground. His toes curled and his body shook as Patroclus’s head bobbed lazily, drawing it out, slowing it down. He grinned as Achilles whined in need, pleading for him to go faster. Patroclus added a third finger and twisted them inside of him, Achilles jerking as Patroclus found that sweet, sweet spot deep inside.

“Gods, Patroclus,” he gasped. “Please, just…get inside me, please, I need you.”

Patroclus grinned and released him with a wet pop, sitting up to position the tip of his cock against Achilles’s entrance. “Ready?” he murmured. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Achilles squirmed, his hands fisting in the carpet. “Patroclus, _please_ ,” he whimpered, his cheeks flushed, his lips red and kiss-swollen. “Oh, Gods, I need you, please, just…”

Patroclus leaned down and kissed him. “Alright,” he breathed, pushing the tip in gently. Achilles whimpered, his eyes squeezing shut. “Shhh, relax, Achilles, I’ve got you.” He pushed in until he was completely sheathed in Achilles’s heat; he felt Achilles clench around him and gasped against Achilles’s mouth.

Achilles let out a soft, shaky laugh. “You okay, Patroclus?”

“Yeah.” Patroclus huffed. “You?”

“Just…just give me a moment,” Achilles gasped. He took a few deep breaths, and then something shifted; he exhaled sharply and something inside of him gave way. Patroclus moved experimentally, grinning as Achilles shuddered beneath him.

“Gods, yes, Patroclus,” Achilles moaned. Patroclus gripped his hips tightly to hold him still as he began thrusting. Achilles cried out, his hands gripping Patroclus’s forearms, his head thrown back and his mouth open in a silent cry.

Patroclus took Achilles’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged. Achilles let out a high-pitched keening, his legs wrapping around Patroclus’s hips and his thighs squeezing, shaking. Patroclus nipped down his neck and sucked a bruise into the skin over where Achilles’s heart pounded, strong and sure, before licking his way back up and fastening his teeth into the skin over his jugular, the blood rushing hot and fast under his mouth. Achilles cried out, his nails clawing at Patroclus’s back.

“You like that?” Patroclus murmured with a grin. “Hot and fast and rough, is that what you like? To be fucked like an animal, taken like you’re less than human?”

“Yes, please, yes,” Achilles gasped, tilting his head back and baring his neck for Patroclus to claim. Patroclus latched onto it again, biting down and tightening his grip on Achilles’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Achilles pulled him down. “Harder, Patroclus,” he groaned.

Patroclus released his grip on Achilles’s neck, pleased to see that his teeth had left marks. “You are _so_ needy,” he murmured, slowing down the pace just to tease him and grinning as Achilles writhed and whined in response. “Considering how you never talked when we first met, you’re also really, _really_ noisy.”

Achilles laughed shakily. “Only for you.” His head tilted back again and his hand left Patroclus’s skin, reaching down to take his own cock in hand. “Gods, Patroclus,” he gasped.

Patroclus gently pulled his hand out of the way. “Let me,” he murmured, gripping Achilles’s length and stroking in time with his thrusts. Achilles keened, his back arching, clenching down around Patroclus.

Patroclus gasped and shuddered, the heat enveloping him, overwhelming him. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Achilles’s, catching his sharp pants, his drawn-out moans, his pace quickening as heat pooled rapidly in his belly. He felt his control shaking.

“I – I can’t last, Patroclus,” Achilles gasped.

Patroclus huffed a laugh, the heat still building inside of him. He thrust once, twice, and then spilled his seed in Achilles, his body shaking, his breath leaving him in a cry of Achilles’s name. A moment later Achilles spilled in his hand, his seed hot and sticky.

Patroclus collapsed on top of Achilles, panting, his face flushed. “Achilles,” he whispered, licking his fingers clean, grinning slyly but tiredly as he heard Achilles’s breath hitch.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said softly. He pulled Patroclus close to kiss him, tasting himself on Patroclus’s lips.

Patroclus wrapped his arms around him, relishing the warmth of his body, the warmth that drove away the chill already starting to permeate his bones. “I love you.”

Achilles’s lips curved in a smile and he pulled the deerskin blanket over both of them. “I love you.”

Patroclus hummed and closed his eyes, drifting off into sleep.

 

 

Achilles woke him early the next morning with a kiss to his forehead, the smell of cooking meat drifting through the air. Patroclus blinked sleep from his eyes and sat up, clutching the blanket to his chest as a shiver ran through him; it was still quite cold.

“Cooking?” he mumbled.

“Thought you’d like some fresh meat instead of two-week old smoked deer,” Achilles said with a smile, bringing over two sharpened sticks with hot meat strung on them. He settled down cross-legged and held one of the sticks out to Patroclus. “Fresh rabbit, caught it earlier while you were still sleeping.”

Patroclus stared at him. “How much do you even sleep? You know what – forget it, I don’t want to think about it. I can barely function on the few hours we got last night and you’re all…” He broke off and gestured helplessly at Achilles. “You’re all… _perky_. Energized.” He hmphed. “Wish I could do that.” He took the meat and dug into it, relishing the warmth that spread through him. He hummed in satisfaction.

Achilles leaned over and butted his head against Patroclus’s shoulder. “You were the best, you know,” he whispered. “In all these two thousand years that I’ve been alive, you were the best I’ve ever had.”

Patroclus blushed and shoved him away. “Come on, Achilles, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Achilles said, pressing a kiss just under his jaw. “You’re the best. At everything.” He grinned and leaned against Patroclus affectionately. “I love you. Forever.”

At that, all of Patroclus’s worries came crashing down on him again.

_I did it. I did it, even though I know that it’ll only make it harder in December._

Patroclus swallowed, suddenly losing his appetite. “Achilles, I…I need to tell you something.”

Achilles looked at him tilting his head, his eyes searching. “It’s not something good.”

Patroclus couldn’t meet his gaze. “No, it’s not,” he whispered. He swallowed again. “Achilles, I…I’m leaving.”

Achilles looked at him, his brow furrowing. “Leaving?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m leaving. In a little more than a month. And…and I won’t be able to see you again.”

Achilles was staring at him. “Leaving,” he said again.

Patroclus flinched at the confusion and hurt in his voice. “It’s not you, Achilles, I promise. And it’s not me either. My father, he…he’s sending me to Skyros. To be married. And I tried to get out of it, I really did, but I…if I don’t marry her, there’s going to be war between Skyros and Opus. My marriage is the only thing holding the truce.”

“So you…you’re going. You’re going to Skyros to marry. You’re leaving,” Achilles said.

“Yes.”

Achilles was silent for a long time. Patroclus was afraid to say anything. The cave suddenly felt much colder.

“I want you to stay,” Achilles said finally. “You can’t hold the truce forever. Eventually they will go to war, no matter whether you like it or not. You must know that, Patroclus.”

Patroclus’s voice was pained. “I want to stay too,” he whispered. “But I can’t. I can’t stay here knowing I’ve doomed my people to a war that I could’ve prevented, even if I could prevent it only for a few years. I couldn’t live with myself.”

“Don’t you love me?”

“Achilles –” Patroclus’s voice broke. “Don’t do this to me, please. You know I love you. I love you more than anyone, more than anything I’ve ever loved or will love. Do you think this is easy for me? I’m leaving you, I’m leaving my mother, I’m leaving Briseis, I’m leaving _home_. All for some island in the middle of the ocean that I know nothing about except that its princess is Deidameia and its king is Lycomedes and he is angry at us for killing the son of one of the most powerful families of his nation, and my marriage to Deidameia is the only thing that is keeping thousands of our people from death.”

Achilles’s eyes glistened. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “I thought…I thought we would have longer together.” He shook his head and turned away. “But I should have known,” he said bitterly. “The Fates are cruel.”

Patroclus took his face in his hands. “Look at me, Achilles. Please. I love you. And we still have a month left before I leave. If…if it’s okay with you, I want to spend as much time as I can with you before I leave. I want to be happy with you here, even if it’s only for another month.”

Achilles gave him a twisted smile. “The last days of Patroclus Menotiades and Achilles Pelides,” he murmured. He gave a harsh laugh. “I love you, Patroclus, and so it shall be as you wish. But first, tell me, what am I supposed to do when you’re gone? How am I supposed to live?”

Patroclus’s chest tightened. “Do what you’ve always done before,” he whispered. “Move on.”

Achilles’s eyes flashed. “I have _never_ moved on,” he hissed. “Everyone who came before, I have never been able to move on. Not really, not completely, even though my love for you swept me away and made it feel like they were nothing compared to you. But once you love you never stop loving, Patroclus, and I can never stop loving you.”

“Then forget me,” Patroclus said, ignoring the way his heart felt like it was breaking in two at his words. “Wipe me from your mind. Make me nothing. But _live_ , Achilles. Be happy without me.”

“You are my happiness, Patroclus. You are my life. I could not forget you if I tried. You are the one who tamed Achilles.”

Patroclus kissed him, closing his eyes to hide his tears. “You’ll find another lion-tamer in the future,” he whispered.

“None like you.” But Achilles kissed him back. “I love you forever, even when you’re across the ocean, even when the ruins of Greece are nothing but sand and dust. I will love you, and remember you, and cherish you.”

_Philtatos._

But Patroclus couldn’t say it. Not now, when it would be ripped away from him. Not now, when they could only pretend they had forever together. Not now, when it would be filled with pain and confusion and anger instead of love and happiness and hope.

So instead, he held Achilles close to him, feeling his heart beat against his chest, feeling his breath come warm and steady against his shoulder.

 

 

Outside, the sun rose, and the cold winds brought on the winter.

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our time runs out, and I just love you more and more, even though I said I should forget you.

 

 

Queen Philomena’s condition stabilized. Patroclus and Polarius worked to keep her comfortable and warm while she recovered, and when Polarius left, Patroclus stayed behind with her and talked to her about the forest. He didn’t say anything about Achilles, and she didn’t ask.

He loved his mother for that. He knew his father saw her as weak and even stupid, but she could read people in a way he could never even dream to. It was as sure of a gift as Achilles’s gift for battle. She knew that there was something else to the story that he wasn’t saying, but she could also see that it wasn’t something Patroclus wanted to talk to her about.

He couldn’t talk to her about it. He couldn’t talk to one person he was leaving about someone else he was also leaving. He didn’t think his heart was strong enough for that.

Even if one of those people seemed to already have left him.

 

 

_I love you, Patroclus, and so it shall be as you wish._

Why, then, was Achilles not there? Patroclus had gone to the forest every day for the past four days, and Achilles had not been there. Patroclus had gone to the rabbit den, to the meadow, to the overhang where they had first watched the sunset together, to where Achilles had taught him how to fight, even directly to Achilles’s cave.

It was like Achilles had disappeared.

Patroclus knew that he would see Achilles only if Achilles wanted to be seen. The only explanation was that Achilles was avoiding him. _Why_? Patroclus kept asking himself. _He’s not putting me in danger anymore; Paris and Hector have left these woods. Or is he jealous? Is he jealous that Deidameia will get to spend the rest of her life with me and he won’t?_

Patroclus couldn’t help but feel hurt and angry. One month. That was all they had left.

But when Achilles reappeared on the fifth day by the meadow, all of the hurt and anger and confusion melted away from him as he hurled himself into Achilles’s arms and buried his face in his chest, inhaling the sandalwood and pomegranate scent that he knew he would miss so much.

He couldn’t stay angry at Achilles.

“I looked for you,” he wanted to say. “I went everywhere that we had ever been to find you. I came here every day and stayed for hours, even though you never showed up. I knew that there had to be a reason you didn’t come. I knew you wouldn’t just leave. I just wish you would have told me.”

But he couldn’t say that to Achilles for the same reason he had been angry in the first place. They had a month left, and he didn’t want to waste that time.

“I missed you,” he said instead. It was still the truth.

_If I missed you so much after four days, how will I survive the rest of my life?_

Achilles kissed him, his lips warmer and softer and sweeter after their time apart. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he murmured. “It won’t happen again. I promised, and I’m sorry I backed out of it.” He put his arms around Patroclus and rested his chin on Patroclus’s head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Why?” Patroclus whispered. “Why weren’t you here?”

Achilles kissed the top of his head and pressed his cheek to his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Patroclus looked up at him. “Tell me, Achilles,” he pleaded softly. Achilles had promised. There must have been a reason for him to break that.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Patroclus frowned. “Of course, Achilles.”

“…Alright.” Achilles let out a deep breath, his chest pressing against Patroclus’s. “I stayed away because…I wasn’t sure I could bear it again.”

Patroclus tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “What does that mean?”

Achilles gave him a twisted smile. He was still so beautiful, even with his face contorted in pain like that. “I’m immortal, Patroclus. You’re not. None of them were.”

“So?” Patroclus demanded. “I already knew that.” And then he realized. “Oh,” he whispered, his eyes widening in comprehension. “Oh, so even if I were to stay, it would still be the same. I…I’m going to die, and you…aren’t.”

Achilles was silent.

“So…so is that why you didn’t come? Because you know that I’m going to leave you either way, like…like those other people you loved? And you thought maybe it would be easier to leave now?”

“I…I didn’t know if I could do it again,” Achilles whispered, and suddenly he seemed small, lost, afraid. “Everyone…everyone I’ve ever loved…I’ve been separated from them. Time after time after time…I’ve lost so many who I care about and the pain, after every…every death…I didn’t know if I could bear it again, so I stayed away, tried to distance myself from you, to try and make it easier for both of us. And I know what I said, Patroclus, I do, and I’m sorry. I know I promised to spend this month with you.”

“Shhh,” Patroclus murmured, pressing a kiss to his lips. “It’s alright, Achilles. I’m not angry with you.” His heart ached at the pain in Achilles’s face. He tried to imagine losing Achilles once to mortality and flinched away from it; he couldn’t begin to imagine losing him over and over again for two thousand years. “You’re here now,” he said quietly, uncertainly.

Achilles gave him a small smile. “Yes. I’m here now.”

“Is it…it’s not to say goodbye, is it?”

“No. I’m not saying goodbye.”

“So…so are you here…to stay?” Patroclus asked hesitantly. “I mean, for this month.”

“Yes,” Achilles murmured. “I’m here to stay.”

Patroclus huffed a laugh and buried his face in Achilles’s chest, feeling the strong heart pound against his cheek. “I thought it was because of Deidameia,” he said softly. “I thought you were jealous of her or something, or that you were angry with me for leaving you.”

“Never,” Achilles said, quietly but forcefully. “It was never because of you. It never was, and it never will be. I could never be angry with you.” He turned his head away; tendons shifted in his neck. “I thought it would be easier for you if I just disappeared now. It would be one less thing for you to have to leave in December.”

Patroclus frowned at him. “I’m offended, Achilles. You think I would let go of you that easily? You think that I would stop looking for you here, wondering where you went?”

Achilles bit his lip, unable to meet Patroclus’s eyes. “I thought you might be able to let me go.”

Patroclus took Achilles’s face in his hands, forcing him to look at him. Green stared deep into his soul. “You were never able to let go of anyone else you’ve loved,” he said. “You told me yourself. So why would you expect me to be any different? Do you think I love you any less than you love me?”

Achilles didn’t answer, and Patroclus drew back. “If it causes you so much pain…why did you show yourself to me, then? Why did you keep come seeing me, again and again and again?” He touched Achilles’s cheek gently. “Why did you fall in love with me?”

At that, Achilles’s lip curved upwards in a smile. “How could I not?”

 

 

They sat by the shore of the lake, watching as the reflected sky in front of them rippled and splashed onto the pebbles, scattering stars at their feet. A fish jumped, somewhere out in the water, sending a silver spray of water droplets into the air. An owl called its mournful, eerie cry.

For just a moment, it was summer again.

But then a cold wind blew and the illusion was shattered. The trees lost their leaves again, the bite came back to the air, and the roses behind them shriveled and dried. They were dying with the winter as Patroclus left for Skyros.

“I’m glad you told me,” Patroclus said presently. “And I’m glad you decided to come back, even though…even though it must be hard for you.”

Achilles shook his head and brushed his lips against Patroclus’s. “It might be hard later,” he said quietly, “but for now…” He kissed Patroclus harder, nudging his mouth open with his tongue. “For now, I just want to kiss you. I love you so much, Patroclus,” he whispered. “Every time I see you, it’s like the first time. It’s like my first love all over again.”

Patroclus grinned against his mouth, and Achilles pulled him to the ground, and Patroclus took him again under the stars.

 

 

“It’s cold,” Patroclus mumbled.

“There’s another cave somewhere nearby,” Achilles murmured.

Patroclus made a noise of disapproval. He didn’t want to move.

Achilles laughed softly. “Alright, we’ll stay here then.” He shifted over and curled his body against Patroclus’s, draping an arm over Patroclus’s chest and tangling their legs together. He rested his chin against the delicate skin between Patroclus’s neck and chest, his halo of golden hair tickling Patroclus’s chin, and pulled both of their discarded chitons over them for more warmth.

Patroclus put his arms around Achilles and ducked his head down to press a kiss to Achilles’s head.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to spend the rest of my life with you,” Achilles said quietly after a few moments of silence. He clung tighter to Patroclus.

_Would it have been better if we had never met? If Achilles had never shown himself in the forest that one fateful day five years ago? Would we both be happier? Would it have been better if I hadn’t heard old Telerias tell that story of Achilles, Aristos Achaion, by the fireside before I’d gone to treat the brave, stupid boy who challenged Arasseon to a fight? Would it have been better if I never knew Achilles existed?_

No. It wouldn’t have been better. It wouldn’t even have been easier. He would feel something missing like a hole in his heart, something that nothing and no one else could ever fill. He would spend his days searching for something he didn’t know existed. It would be a different life, a different reality, without Achilles here to ground him. He might happily get married, perhaps to Deidameia, perhaps even to Briseis, if he had been born differently. A world without Achilles was a different world, after all.

But he would always be looking for Achilles. He wouldn’t be truly alive without him.

He was half his soul, as the poets say.

Achilles’s grip on Patroclus tightened, his fingers digging into Patroclus’s shoulder and his lips pressing into Patroclus’s neck, a whispered plea slipping past his lips.

“I just want to be mortal.”

 

 

Achilles was true to his word. He was there waiting for Patroclus every day without fail, greeting him with a smile and a kiss. Neither of them spoke of how the days were passing, of how they had three, two, one week left together.

The wedding was set for the tenth of December, but Patroclus was to leave on the twenty-fifth of November to account for travel time as well as preparation time for the wedding. And still, his mother did not know about it.

At this point, though, it was probably for her sake that she didn’t. She had seemed to be improving for the past two weeks, but her health had taken a drastic downturn recently and neither Menoitius nor Polarius thought she could survive the news that her son was leaving, not now when she was so happy with the illusion that he would be married in Opus to become its next king. Patroclus hated to admit it, but he agreed with them.

Briseis didn’t know yet either, which is why Patroclus stopped her on the way to washing the sheets the afternoon of the seventeenth. She was his best friend. She needed to know.

She stood in front of him, her hand on her hip, leaning her weight on one leg. “Well? I’m busy right now, so make it quick; I don’t want old Chiron chewing me out for being late. He’s temperamental enough as it is.”

Patroclus tilted his head. “Really? All his students seem to like him.”

Briseis shrugged and set down the basket of laundry. “I don’t know. I’ve just overheard things from when they were all training. It was mainly just a bunch of yelling. Tough love, though, I guess. Anyway, spit it out. What did you need me for?”

Patroclus bit his lip. “Look, Briseis, I’m sorry for not tell you this earlier. I really should’ve.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself for her wrath. “I’m leaving. In a week. To Skyros.”

“To be married, yes, I know.” Briseis sounded almost bored. Patroclus looked up at her in surprise, and she laughed. “I know about it, Pat. What do you think servants do all day, talk about the weather? No, your father had some of us prepare the ship for when you leave, and word got out. I was wondering when you were going to tell me.”

Patroclus blinked. “Oh.”

Briseis snorted. “Is that all?”

Patroclus frowned. “I…I thought you would be more upset about it. I’m not going to be able to come back, you know.”

Briseis grinned. “I know, and neither am I.”

Patroclus stared at her, utterly baffled. “What?”

Her grin widened and her eyes sparkled. “You’re going to be married, Patroclus. Marriage means gifts to whoever you’re getting married off to. And in this case, since your marriage is supposedly keeping us all from war and whatnot, that means _many_ gifts. Silver, gold, jewels…and servants.”

Patroclus’s mouth fell open. “What – so, wait, does that mean…?”

Briseis looked like she could barely contain her excitement. “ _Yes_ , Patroclus. I’m coming with you to Skyros.”

 

 

Patroclus was woken by frantic knocking on his door early the next morning, just after he had come back from the forest and collapsed into his bed again. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Come in,” he mumbled, slipping on his chiton.

The door opened and a servant entered, bowing. “It’s Queen Philomena. Polarius is looking for you. He says to hurry.”

Patroclus was out the door before the servant had even straightened back up.

 

 

Polarius was already by his mother’s bedside by the time he reached her chambers and was busy propping her up on the pillows. “Hurry, Patroclus, get her some tea. She’s coughing up blood. And pass me a cool cloth for her fever.”

Forcing himself to keep calm for his mother’s sake, Patroclus took a strip of cloth from Polarius’s bag and soaked it in the basin of cool water that was resting in the queen’s washroom, handing it to Polarius before calling a servant for the tea, specifying to add honey to it. He hurried to the queen’s other side, feeling the heat radiating off her body from the fever. She coughed again and Polarius held a napkin to her mouth. It came away bloody.

“She’s getting worse,” Polarius muttered. “I don’t know how much more we can do for her.”

“We’ll save her,” Patroclus insisted. He turned to his mother and brushed a lock of stray hair back from her forehead. “It’s okay, Mother. You’ll get better. Polarius and I will take care of you, and you’ll be as good as new. You’ll be fine.”

Queen Philomena reached up with a shaking hand and took Patroclus’s. A weak smile spread across her face. “I know,” she whispered, struggling not to cough. “I believe you.”

Patroclus gave her hand a squeeze. “Just rest, Mother. We’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine, I promise.” He ignored Polarius’s warning look. A healer does not make promises.

The queen coughed again and Polarius adjusted the pillows, pressing the damp washcloth against her forehead to try and bring down the fever and removing one of the blankets draped over her.

“It’s cold,” she murmured.

“I know,” Patroclus said quietly, glancing at Polarius in concern. “But we need to keep your fever down. You’ll be better soon.”

The servant appeared with the tea, which she set down on the bedside table before bowing and retreating. Patroclus took the tea and held it to his mother’s lips, helping her sit up so she could drink. She sighed as the heat relaxed her muscles and cleared her lungs, closing her eyes and leaning back against the pillows. Her coughing had eased up with the help of the tea, but she was still hot with fever. Still, she was exhausted, and soon slipped back into sleep.

“Patroclus, there are others who need tending to,” Polarius said. “If you could –”

“No, I’m staying here,” Patroclus interrupted. “I’ll stay with my mother. You can go see whoever else needs you.”

Polarius hesitated and then nodded. “Very well.” He stood and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

“How is she?” Patroclus heard Menoitius demand as soon as Polarius had left the room. He must have been waiting outside.

“Very weak,” Polarius said grimly.

“Will she recover?”

Polarius sighed, the sound muffled through the heavy doors. “She seemed to have been recovering a few weeks ago, but for whatever reason the sickness will not leave her completely. She’s been getting worse despite all of my best efforts. Right now, I’m afraid all we can do is keep her comfortable and hope for the best.”

Patroclus felt like his heart had stopped.

_Keep her comfortable and hope for the best._

That’s not what healers said when they had hope. Healers said that to comfort grieving family members when someone was about to die and there was nothing they could do. It was a gentle way to tell them to say goodbye.

There was a long silence. Then, Menoitius spoke, and he sounded defeated. “Do what you can for her. I would not have her suffer.”

Patroclus heard him walk away.

 

 

King Menoitius was absolutely thunderous when Patroclus next saw him later that day, and it had nothing to do with his wife’s health. He stormed through the castle, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his expression blacker than night. Even Arasseon stayed out of his way.

“Phoinix!” he roared abruptly, causing Patroclus, who was crossing the hallway behind him on his way back to his room, to jump about a foot. Phoinix, his father’s advisor and a very old man who was quite used to Menoitius’s outbursts, shuffled forwards and bowed. He saw his father bend down to mutter something in his ear, to which the old man drew back, eyes wide, shaking his head. He looked over the king’s shoulder at Patroclus.

Menoitius turned. “Patroclus.” His eyes narrowed as he strode forward. “Do you have any knowledge of a dagger that was taken from your ship last night?”

Patroclus frowned and shook his head, confused. “No, Father. I don’t know anything about it. I wasn’t even aware that there was even a dagger on the ship.”

His father growled. “It is part of the many gifts King Lycomedes is expecting, and it has been stolen. He will not accept a truce without it being part of the gifts.”

Patroclus’s eyes widened. “Wh…what?”

“You and the dagger. Those were the terms of the truce. The dagger was stolen from his family during our last war a hundred years ago, and he wants back what is rightfully his. Without the dagger, there is no marriage, and there is no peace. Now, I will ask you one last time, do you know anything at all about its current whereabouts?”

“No, I have no idea!”

Menoitius glowered, but then turned and stalked back towards his advisor. “Phoinix?”

“Might I suggest involving the people?” the old man asked in his quavering voice. “The servants especially may have seen something, and even if they did not, they regularly enter rooms for cleaning and such; perhaps they will be able to find it. I would suggest not making this public.”

“Very well. We will ask the servants since they’re always lurking anyway, and hope that one of them has seen something.” Menoitius turned to glare at his son. “You had better hope we find it, for the sake of our people.”

 

 

By noon the next day, the stolen dagger was the talk of the castle; everywhere he went, Patroclus heard whispers and snatches of conversation. Briseis found Patroclus at one of the tables during lunch and sat down across from him.

“Do you know anything about this?” Patroclus asked. “My father seems to think I’ve taken it, which is ridiculous. I didn’t even know there was a dagger _on_ the ship! Do you have any idea what’s going on? Have the servants been saying anything?”

Briseis shook her head, looking worried. “No one seems to have seen anything.”

“Who could’ve taken it?” Patroclus demanded. “Someone who’s trying to anger Skyros?”

“No, I don’t think so. That part of the truce isn’t even public, anyway, so the chances that someone else knows is pretty low. It’s most likely one of the servants; all the important people around here already have fancy jeweled daggers and they wouldn’t need another one. I think someone took it out of jealousy or greed. I don’t think they understand the consequences of it.” She sighed and took a bite of bread. “I just hope they turn it in soon, whoever it is.”

“They’re not going to turn themselves in if they’re scared of the punishment,” Patroclus muttered.

Briseis shrugged. “I suppose not. But I’m sure they’ll find it eventually. Your father has put up a pretty hefty reward for whoever does, so I don’t think it’s going to be long. Definitely before we’re supposed to leave, anyway.” She paused and put down her bread. “Speaking of which, how are you holding up?”

“About leaving?”

“No, about the weather.” Briseis snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yes, you nut, about leaving!”

Patroclus shot her a look, but then hunched down over his lunch, taking a sad bite of meat. “I don’t know. Not very well.” He lowered his voice as Ajax passed by behind him on his way to sit down. “Achilles wasn’t very happy about it, as you could probably expect, and my mother doesn’t know. My father doesn’t think it’s a good idea to tell her, considering her health.”

Briseis tilted her head, a crease forming between her eyes. “How is she? Your father keeps it all very hushed up, but word gets out, anyway. I heard…I heard she’s not doing too well.”

“No, she isn’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Briseis withdrew immediately. “Sorry.” She reached out a hand and put it on Patroclus’s. “But I’m sure everything is going to be okay,” she said softly.

Patroclus shook his head. “I’m not so sure,” he murmured.

 

 

He was right.

He had been with his mother the entire day, tending to her worsening cough and fever. She had just fallen back asleep by moonrise and he had stood to leave her to her rest when he heard the scream.

“ _No!_ No, please, let me go, it wasn’t me!”

He would know that voice anywhere. He rushed out of his mother’s chambers and down the stairs to the hall in front of his father’s throne room, where he saw Briseis being dragged forward by two guards, her arms trapped in theirs. She struggled and pulled, tears streaming from her face.

“I didn’t take it!” she yelled, as the guards dragged her in front of his father and forced her to her knees. She knelt there, her hair wild and pulled out of its neat bun, her face blotchy and wet with tears, her eyes red-rimmed as she looked pleadingly up at the king. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, I didn’t take it!” Her eyes fell on Patroclus. “Patroclus! Patroclus, please –”

“Silence!” Menoitius thundered. Briseis shrank back.

Patroclus started forward. “Father –”

Menoitius turned his glare on his son. The message was clear.

He turned back to Briseis. “Briseis, is it? This young man here told me he saw someone fitting your description approaching the ship the night the dagger was stolen.” He gestured for the man to come forward, and Patroclus gasped.

Chileus.

“Tell me, Chileus, is this who you saw?”

Chileus squirmed uncomfortably. “I…I don’t know…it’s possible, I guess? But I – I didn’t get a good look, it was dark and I wasn’t paying much attention…”

“Thank you, Chileus,” Menoitius said, turning back to Briseis. “He then said that he saw you return from the ship with a dagger and sheath in your hand,” Menoitius continued, and his voice was cold, hard. “What do you have to say about this?”

Fresh tears streamed from Briseis’s face. “It wasn’t me,” she sobbed. “I swear, it wasn’t me, I don’t know who he saw but it wasn’t me.”

Menoitius turned to Phoinix, who was standing behind him. Phoinix looked thoughtful for a few moments before he said, “I do not think it was her. There are many servant girls who look like her, your Highness. It could have been anyone. I do believe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Menoitius was silent for a long while, during which he looked hard at Briseis, causing her to squirm uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “Release her,” he said finally. He turned to the man standing beside him. Odysseus, Patroclus thought. “Take two of your men and search her chambers,” he murmured. “Let me know if you find anything. In the meantime, keep an eye out for anyone else who might fit the description.”

Odysseus bowed and retreated, and the guards lifted Briseis to her feet and escorted her out of the room.

Shakily, Patroclus backed away, slipping out a side door and running around to the front to meet Briseis where the guards had lead her out of the room. She ran into his arms as soon as she saw him, her tears soaking the front of his chiton.

“I swear I didn’t take it, I swear,” she sobbed.

“Shhh,” Patroclus murmured, rubbing her back soothingly. “It’s alright. I know you didn’t do it, and Chileus can go rot for accusing you like that.”

Briseis shook her head. “No, he didn’t,” she sniffed, wiping her tears away with a shaking hand. “He didn’t accuse me. I heard him; he just said he saw a servant girl with shoulder-length brown hair. That could be anyone.” Her face hardened. “But Menoitius would have had to talk to someone to come to the conclusion that it was me, of all people. Someone else turned me in.”

Patroclus narrowed his eyes in anger. “When I find out who did it, I’ll skin them alive,” he snarled. He lead her towards his chambers and pushed open the door. “You can stay here tonight if you want.”

Briseis shook her head. “No, I...I’m a servant, Patroclus, I can’t.”

“You’re my best friend,” Patroclus said forcefully.

“What about Achilles?” Briseis asked softly. “I know you would be with him right now if you could, if you hadn’t been with your mother and if you hadn’t been dragged into this.”

Patroclus shook his head. “No, Briseis, it’s not your fault. Of course I want to see him, but –”

“Then take me with you,” Briseis whispered.

Patroclus blinked. “What – to meet him?”

“Yes. I…I need to take my mind off things, anyway.”

“Oh.” Patroclus blinked again. “Um. Okay.” He frowned. “But what if someone sees you leaving the castle? Wouldn’t that be suspicious?”

Briseis grinned for the first time, even though her eyes were still red from crying. “Oh, Pat. I thought you’d have learned more from me by now. There are back entrances, the ones all the servants use; we can leave through those.”

Patroclus hesitated, and then nodded. “Alright. We’ll go meet Achilles.”

 

 

Achilles was waiting for them. He didn’t seem surprised by Briseis’s presence, and acknowledged her with a small nod. Patroclus felt Briseis grab for his hand, holding it tight, betraying her anxiety even as she tried to look calm.

“Achilles, this is Briseis,” Patroclus said. “She wanted to meet you.”

Achilles cast his deep green gaze over her before turning back to Patroclus. “She thinks I am going to hurt you.”

Briseis lifted her chin. “I trust his judgment,” she said, her grip on Patroclus’s hand tightening despite the brave image she put out. “If he says you won’t hurt him, I believe him.”

Achilles looked amused. “And yet you are frightened of me.”

Briseis stiffened.

“I can see it, just as I can see the fear in a deer’s eyes before I kill it,” Achilles said, almost carelessly. “You betray your emotions.”

Patroclus raised his eyebrows. “Oh, and I don’t? Why are you picking on her for it?”

Achilles ignored him, his eyes fixed on Briseis. “Patroclus has told me much about you,” he said. “He holds you in high regards. Has he said as much about me?”

“Oh, please,” Patroclus grumbled.

“He has,” Briseis said, cautiously. “When he feels like it, at least. He said that you taught him how to hunt and fight. He said you saved him from the men who attacked them.” She released Patroclus’s hand and took a wary step forward. “It was a nice change, really, to hear about the great Achilles outside of what the legends say. Nice to hear that he’s not all bad.”

Patroclus groaned. “Don’t encourage him, Briseis.”

Achilles grinned, a quick twitch of his lips. “No, Patroclus, I quite like it.”

“So are you immortal?” Briseis asked abruptly.

Achilles didn’t falter. “Yes.”

Briseis blinked. “Oh.”

Patroclus rounded on him. “What is this, Achilles? It took you _ages_ to tell me that, and you see her for a few minutes and start spilling all of your secrets?”

Achilles simply shrugged. “She’s your best friend, Patroclus. I figured you would have told her eventually anyway, if you hadn’t already. In the end, it’s the same result.”

“It would’ve been the same with _me_ , whether you told me earlier or not. Either way I would end up knowing that you’re immortal.”

“I did not know if you would stay. That is the difference.”

Patroclus was taken aback. “Oh,” he said finally. He sniffed. “Well, I suppose that makes some sort of sense, then.”

Achilles turned back to Briseis. “Well? You’ve met me. What now?”

“Now I go back,” Briseis said. “I have to be back in the morning anyway, or the kitchens are going to miss me, and I _would_ like to get some sleep before the day starts tomorrow. And yes, I know you guys have a place to stay, otherwise Pat would be frozen every morning when he comes back, but I really don’t have any interest in being there while you two do…whatever you do.”

Patroclus blushed. “We don’t do anything,” he mumbled.

“Shut up, of course you do. Now I think I know the way back, it’s this way, right?” she asked, turning and walking in the general direction from which they had come.

“We will accompany you,” Achilles said.

“No, really, there’s no need, I’ll be fine,” Briseis protested. “I don’t want to waste your time by having you walk through the woods with me, alright? Really, I’ll be fine.”

Patroclus gave her a look, starting to lead the way back. “Achilles doesn’t even let _me_ walk back by myself, and I’ve been doing this for months. Which makes sense, I guess, seeing as it’s not just us in the forest, there are lynxes and wolves and bears too. Forget it, Briseis, we’re coming with you until you get back to the city.”

Briseis relented, and Patroclus walked beside her back towards Opus. Achilles strayed behind, always watching, always listening, silent as a shadow.

 

 

Patroclus didn’t return to Opus with her. As soon as she made it safely back within the city walls, he went back into the forest with Achilles, curling up beside him on the lynx furs, but he couldn’t sleep, so Achilles didn’t either. They simply lay together, watching the stars through the entrance of the cave, listening to the sounds of the forest.

It was much quieter now that summer had passed. Somehow, that didn’t feel more peaceful.

Patroclus shifted so he was lying on his side, facing Achilles.

“I’m going to miss you,” he murmured.

Achilles just watched him.

“Do you think…do you think, in another life, things would have been different?” he asked. “Do you think there’s a world out there where we can spend the rest of our lives together? Does it exist?”

“Anything is possible,” Achilles said quietly. His eyes were bright in the darkness.

“Hm.” Patroclus looked at Achilles, his eyes roaming, searching. He memorized the curve of his pink lips, the arrow line of his nose, the fluttering of his lashes as he blinked. He memorized the sweetness of his scent, sandalwood and pomegranate with something like almonds underneath, the silence with which he breathed, the warm comfort of his golden skin that turned pale in the moonlight and glowed under the sun. He memorized all of Achilles, etching it into every part of his brain, branding himself with the memories, tying their souls together so tightly that they would never be separated, no matter how many miles of sea lay between them, no matter how many years of death tore them apart. “I wish we lived in that world,” he said finally.

Achilles was silent.

Patroclus imagined what it would be like to grow old with him. He imagined the golden boy turning slowly to silver beside him, ever graceful, ever lovely. He imagined sitting by the lake above the meadow, too old and frail to swim and dive but still young enough to remember. He imagined lying together under the stars, smelling the sweet scent of fresh rain on young grass and the sharp scent of the pine trees that was carried to them on the breeze.

He wanted to tell Achilles all of this. He wanted to let him know how much he loved him, how much he wanted him, how much he missed him already. He wanted to let him know how entirely devoted he would be to him, for the rest of his life, for the rest of eternity, even in death. But he didn’t know how. There was nothing he could say that could convey what he felt.

Achilles reached out and touched his jaw, tracing the line of it down to his chin, before leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Patroclus,” he murmured.

He had always been better with words.  

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I lay here,  
> If I just lay here,  
> Would you lay with me and just forget the world”   
> – Snow Patrol

 

 

Patroclus snuck back into the castle early the next morning, hoping to be back early enough to get to his mother’s chambers without incurring suspicion. He slipped in through the same back entrance he and Briseis had used to leave the castle and walked quietly up the stairs towards her room, where Polarius ambushed him around the corner.

“Patroclus! Thank the Gods.” The old man wrapped his arms tightly around Patroclus and squeezed him tightly.

Patroclus choked. “Um…uh, nice to see you too.” He struggled, his hands flapping uselessly as he tried to escape his mentor’s grip. “I’d…I’d like if you could release me now. It’s kind of…hard to breathe.”

Polarius gave a shuddering sigh and let go, still keeping a hand on Patroclus’s arm as if Patroclus would go spiraling into the void if he let go. “I’m so glad to see you. We must inform your father.”

“What? Wait, Polarius, what’s going on?”

The old man sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked exhausted. “I’m sorry, Patroclus. I know how much Briseis means to you.”

“What? Did something happen to her?” Patroclus demanded.

“No, no. Not…not _to_ her.” Polarius hesitated, lowering his voice to speak again. “You remember the boy who provided the description of the servant he saw stealing the dagger from the ship? Chileus, I think his name was. He was found dead this morning with the dagger in his chest.”

Patroclus drew back. “What are you saying?”

Polarius shook his head. “I’m sorry, Patroclus. I know she was your friend.”

“Are you saying you think _she_ killed him?” he asked incredulously. “Because…because that’s wrong. It’s impossible. She would _never_ do something like that – you have the wrong person! I know her, Polarius, I know she would never kill anyone. And besides, what evidence do you even have that she was the one who killed him? Or are you just going on some idiot’s vague descriptions again?” His voice rose in anger.

“I’m sorry,” Polarius said again. “Your father will not be swayed. The hearing is happening the day after tomorrow at noon, when she will be judged and given a sentence if found guilty.”

Patroclus shook himself free of Polarius’s grip. “I need to see my father. I have to talk to him. He’s got the wrong person.”

“He’s in the throne room. For her sake, I hope you can convince him.”

Patroclus looked at him. “So you believe me,” he said, stunned.

Polarius nodded. “Yes, Patroclus. I trust your judgment, and you know her better than anyone. If you say she would not have done such a thing, I believe you. I think someone else stole the dagger and killed the boy, and when I could not find you in your chambers, I feared the worst. But here you are, safe. Now go, talk to your father; perhaps now, knowing you are safe, he can lighten the sentence if she is found guilty. I would not have an innocent life needlessly taken.”

 

 

Patroclus threw open the doors to the room and stormed towards his father, who was conversing with Ajax, Phoinix, and Odysseus, but gestured for the other men to leave the room as soon as he entered. Odysseus looked uncharacteristically solemn, and Phoinix was as grave as ever. Ajax seemed to be decades older than he really was.

Chileus may not have been the warrior his father was, but Ajax had loved him anyway.

His father stood as Patroclus approached, something strange like relief flitting across his face before it turned back to stone. “Patroclus. I am glad to see you are safe,” he greeted. He took a moment to look at the anger on is son’s face. “I assume you have been informed of Briseis’s crime.”

“It wasn’t her,” Patroclus said forcefully, not even bothering to bow. “You have the wrong person. She would never do something like that.”

Menoitius raised an eyebrow, sitting back down on the throne. “Then tell me, Patroclus, who was the real culprit?” He looked displeased with Patroclus’s lack of respect but didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t her. What evidence do you have, anyway? Did someone see her actually kill him? Did she confess? Or were you just presented with some random pieces of so-called ‘evidence’ that you haphazardly put together? What do you even know about this?”

“I know that she was seen leaving the castle with you last night and returning alone. I also know that when Odysseus was sent to search her chambers, he was told by another servant that the dagger had been seen in her possession. This morning, that same dagger was found in a boy’s heart. It does not take a brilliant mind to connect everything together.”

Patroclus gaped. “ _What_? Just because someone was _seen_ with something – which I don’t believe, by the way, she wouldn’t have stolen the dagger – doesn’t mean they were the ones actually using it in a crime!”

“Be quiet, Patroclus,” Menoitius said, sounding almost bored. “You know nothing of the matter.”

“I’m her _best friend_ ,” Patroclus hissed. “I know _her_.”

“And I know justice,” Menoitius replied. “A boy was killed, and the killer must face punishment. I’m sorry, Patroclus. It is the only way our city can continue to live in peace.”

Patroclus spat. “You’re condemning the wrong person! How is that supposed to be justice and peace?”

“Unless there is evidence presented that shows otherwise or a confession is made, I can only conclude that Briseis was the one who stole the dagger and killed Chileus. I must base my charge on what evidence is presented, not on my son’s statement of the defendant’s character.” The king began to turn away to call the other men back into the room.

 _No. I’m not finished yet._ Patroclus clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms until it hurt. He lifted his chin and met his father’s gaze without flinching. _He will not condemn Briseis._ “Alright, then I confess.”

At that, Menoitius stilled. “I’m sorry?” he said finally.

“I confess to stealing the dagger off of the ship and using it to kill Chileus.”

His heart pounded in his throat, but he kept his voice steady. Menoitius wouldn’t kill or banish his son, not when his son’s marriage was key to preventing war with Skyros. It would be kept quiet, and Briseis would be let go without punishment.

Menoitius looked at his son, something unreadable in his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“You just said you needed a confession, Father! I’m confessing!”

“I need a confession from someone who actually committed the crime, Patroclus. You cannot go around claiming responsibility for something someone else did, expecting not to be punished just because your marriage must come first.”

“Who are you to say I didn’t do it?” Patroclus demanded, his eyes flashing in anger.

“You were seen leaving the castle last night and returned only this morning. You did not return at any time during the night, as you were never in your room.”

Patroclus curled his lip in disgust. “Is that what you call evidence? I snuck out, snuck back in and stabbed the boy, snuck back out, and then came back again this morning. I never had to go to my room. You can’t say I wasn’t off killing Chileus just because I wasn’t in my _room_. What, do you need me to kill someone else to convince you?”

Menoitius shook his head dismissively. “Leave, Patroclus. You cannot change my mind. She will be tried.”

“There’s no point,” Patroclus snarled. “You’ve made up your mind anyway that she’s guilty. A trial isn’t going to change anything.”

Menoitius narrowed his eyes. “I asked you to leave.”

“Father –”

“ _Leave_.”

Patroclus wavered, but Menoitius made to call the guards to remove him forcefully, so he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the doors behind him.

 

 

He had five days left in Opus. His father wouldn’t let him see Briseis and he was caught every time he tried to sneak into the prisons to see her, so he spent the next two days either by his mother’s bedside or with Achilles, waiting for the day of the trial.

His mother was beginning to forget. The sickness had attacked her lungs and in the last day had begun to take her mind, and she no longer always knew who she was.

It was a fast change. Too fast.

“Patroclus,” his mother whispered, a smile spreading over her face. “You’re here.”

“Yes, Mother,” Patroclus murmured with a smile, sitting down in the chair next to her bed. He had caught her during a good moment; she remembered. He made sure to cherish it, because he knew it wouldn’t last.

She still didn’t know he was leaving, much less what was going on with Briseis, but even in the heat of fever and lapses of memory, she could tell when there was something wrong.

“Talk to me, Patroclus,” she murmured. Her voice was barely more than a whisper; it was all she had the strength for. She wasn’t even strong enough to cough, and she had whittled away in front of him until she was little more than skin stretched over bone.

Patroclus shook his head. He reached over to pick up the tea sitting on her bedside table and hold it to her lips. “Just some things happening at the court,” he said as she drank.

“Patroclus,” his mother said quietly, her voice rasping in her throat. Two large brown eyes stared out at him from a skeletal face. It was an expression that would normally have been categorized as concerned, but on her face, it just looked like death.

“It’s nothing,” Patroclus lied. He took her cold, thin hand in his and pressed it to his face, wishing it was warm and soft instead of delicate, breakable, like a bird’s feet. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Philomena whispered. She was also lying. That’s what happened, when people begin to die. Everyone starts lying. It was to make everything seem perfectly fine, Patroclus supposed. To pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening, to pretend that goodbyes wouldn’t have to be said soon.

“That’s good,” Patroclus said, forcing a smile. He took a small rock out of his pocket. It was quite ordinary, really, except from certain angles. He held it out to her, tilting it slightly so that the light hit it a certain way and cast shadows into the rock’s natural grooves. “I found it in the forest. It looks kind of like a bear, right? And here, if you turn it this way, it looks like a wolf curled up in its nest. See? Here’s its tail, and here’s its muzzle tucked into it.” He placed it in his mother’s palm. “It’s for you.” _To remember me._

Philomena smiled, just a small twitch of her lips. “Thank you, Patroclus. It’s beautiful.” Her eyelids fluttered; she was exhausted.

“I’ll leave you to sleep now,” Patroclus said, kissing her forehead before drawing back.

“Alright,” she murmured. Her eyes closed for a moment, and Patroclus made to leave. He stood, and her eyes opened again.

“Patroclus,” she whispered, a smile spreading over her face. “You’re here.”

 

 

He went to the hearing. Ajax, grief-stricken, presented his case with a well-worded speech that he knew would draw sympathy from the court. His wife was dead. Chileus had been his only son. Chileus had been all he had left, and now he, too, was dead, left burning on the pyre as the sun set over the hills.

And killed by a servant, no less. Out of what? Greed? Jealously? Spite? Revenge? Chileus had only been doing the right thing by going to the king and telling him what he had seen the night the dagger had been stolen, and through false tears and feigned innocence, the culprit had been released, only to return and stab the boy who had accused her.

This was by no means blaming Menoitius. He had simply fallen under the witch’s spell. But now, she would have to answer for her crimes.

Make her answer, he’d pleaded. She was a murderer. Give his son the justice he deserved.

Ajax was one of Opus’s best warriors. He was a hero, a god. Chileus, too, had been well-liked, albeit for different reasons. He was no great warrior like his father, but he was funny, and kind, and warm-hearted.

Briseis was just a servant. She never stood a chance.

She was sentenced to death in four days.

 

 

Patroclus, once again, stormed into the throne room as soon as he returned from the trial.

“Do something,” he demanded. “She’s innocent. And even if she weren’t, she doesn’t deserve to die. That’s not going to bring peace.”

“She needs to answer for her crimes,” Menoitius said. “Ajax is powerful. He will not settle for anything less than the death penalty.”

“But you’re the king,” Patroclus retorted. “Your say matters more than his. Please, Father.”

Menoitius shook his head. “I’m sorry, Patroclus.”

“What good is being a king if you word can’t sway the sentence?” Patroclus demanded. His fists clenched in desperation. “I know he’s influential. I know the people love him. But you’re the king! Surely you could talk to him about it, make him see that she doesn’t deserve death!”

“He sees her as a murderer, Patroclus,” Menoitius said. “Without evidence pointing otherwise, he will see her as a criminal, as do the rest of us. Tell me, if a servant had killed someone you loved, would you let them go with their life just because someone else said he didn’t believe she was capable of murder? That he didn’t believe she was guilty?”

Patroclus rushed forward and knelt at his father’s feet, placing one hand on his father’s knee and cupping his father’s chin with the other. It was an ancient gesture of supplication, one that was only spoken of in the legends, one that indicated utmost respect, one that no one used anymore because they were long past the ages of heroes and gods and devotion.

It was his last hope to change his father’s mind. If this didn’t, nothing would.

“Please, Father.”

Menoitius looked shaken, but his voice was steady. “I’m sorry, Patroclus, but I cannot risk angering one of the most powerful men in Opus over a servant.”

His heart sank. “But she’s a human being!”

“I understand you’re upset, Patroclus,” his father said quietly, his voice as gentle as Patroclus had ever heard it. “But there is nothing I can do. It has already been decided.”

Patroclus stood up and backed away, disgusted, blinking tears from his eyes. “You won’t even try.”

“Patroclus, you must understand. If Ajax is angered, there is no telling what he might do in retaliation, and that is not something I am willing to risk. I must keep the safety and well-being of the people of Opus in mind, not just that of my son, and Ajax will not let her walk free.”

“Then banish her, send her away, _something_! At least let her live!”

Menoitius shook his head. “That’s enough, Patroclus. You will not change my mind.”

“Then let me see her, at least.”

Menoitius hesitated. “Alright,” he said finally. “You may see her. That is all. Her execution stands.”

Patroclus stared at him for a moment before turning and leaving. In despair, yes. In disgust, yes. And also to hide the tears that were streaming from his eyes.

 

 

Patroclus went straight from the castle to see Briseis, accompanied by one of his father’s guards to inform the prison that he was permitted to see her. Following the trial and the proclaiming of her guilt, she had been moved to the prisons further down in the city that were guarded heavily by soldiers, but at a word from the guard beside him they let him enter.

“Ten minutes,” the guard said as he lead Patroclus through two sets of doors and down a long corridor.

Patroclus turned to him incredulously. “Just ten minutes? Is that what my father said?”

“It’s prison policy. I apologize, but we cannot make exceptions. Ten minutes per day, that is all.” He rounded the corner and went through another set of doors to a staircase leading down to the cells, stopping in front of the one holding Briseis.

Briseis was huddled up in the back corner, her arms wrapped around her knees to hug them to her chest and her face buried in the crook of an elbow. Servant’s clothes had never been nice, but hers had been exchanged for standard prison clothes that were much more ragged and looked far less comfortable, and her hair was pulled out of its bun, hanging loose and unwashed around her shoulders.

Patroclus nodded at the guards to leave, and they bowed and retreated. Patroclus walked up to the bars of the prison. “Briseis?” he called softly.

Slowly, Briseis lifted her head. She gave him a broken smile. “Hey, Pat.” She didn’t look surprised or even particularly happy to see him; her eyes were empty and her voice was hollow. The smile was just a mask, just a fantasy, and a splintered one at that.

“I’m sorry this happened,” Patroclus whispered. He clutched the bars as if he could wrench them apart and get his friend out of there. “I talked to my father, I tried to convince him to let you go, but…he wouldn’t listen. I’m so sorry, Briseis.” His voice shook.

“Don’t be,” she said softly, slowly unfolding herself and walking up to the bars of her cell. She put a hand on Patroclus’s. “I’m just a servant. A trial was more than I deserved, especially considering I was being accused by someone like _Ajax_ , and you know that. Your father gave me a trial for _you_. It was more than anyone else would’ve done.”

“You didn’t do it,” Patroclus said. “You’re innocent.”

“Yes, and you know that. That’s good enough for me.”

“It’s not good enough for _me_ ,” Patroclus insisted.

Briseis gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “It’s alright, Patroclus. I’ll be okay.”

 _You’ll be dead._ “You were framed,” he said instead. “You had to be. How else would they always come back to you? Whoever did it needed to blame it on someone else, and they picked you. That’s the only explanation.” His voice grew stronger as he kept talking. “And it had to have been someone who looks like you, right? Otherwise why would Chileus say that it was someone with brown hair? Is there anyone who might have a grudge against you who happens to have brown hair?”

Briseis shook her head, smiling. “It’s alright,” she said again, stopping him. “Nothing is going to chance the sentence now. But it’s okay. I’ve made peace with it.”

“Well _I_ haven’t,” Patroclus retorted. “And it’s not okay. You’re innocent.” He reached in through the bars to touch her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. _You were supposed to come with me. We were supposed to go to Skyros together. You were supposed to be the only piece of home I had in a land of strangers._

“I know, Pat. I’m sorry. But you’ll be okay. Plus, you’re leaving first. It’ll be okay.”

Patroclus’s grip on the bars tightened. “That doesn’t matter,” he hissed. “It’s not right, and you know it, no matter what you say. Someone else did this, and they’re getting away with it because…” He broke off. He couldn’t say it, because saying it would mean it was real.

_Briseis is going to die._

How could he make that real?

“I’m going to find out who did it,” he promised. “I’m going to figure out who framed you, no matter what, even if I’m in Skyros when it happens. But I’ll find out. They’ll pay for this.”

Briseis gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Patroclus.”

Pain shot through his chest when he looked at her. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered.

“Don’t. Please, Patroclus, don’t talk like that. I don’t want these last few days to be like this. I want it to be like before, when we could talk about anything anytime. I want to hear about what goes on at the castle, in the forest, in your life. I want to be happy.”

“You want to pretend like nothing ever happened?” Patroclus asked, incredulously.

“Please, Pat.” She looked pained.

Patroclus took a deep breath. “Alright,” he said. “For you. I’ll do my best.”

She smiled at him, kissing his hand. “Thank you.”

Patroclus bit his lip. “I only have ten minutes,” he murmured. “It’s…it’s prison policy. Ten minutes per day, that’s it.”

Briseis shrugged, still smiling. “That’s alright. That’s ten minutes more every day than we would’ve had if your father hadn’t changed his mind.” The door upstairs banged, and Briseis glanced towards it. “I think that’s all the time for today, but promise me you’ll visit tomorrow?”

“I promise.”

Her smile widened. “I’ll be looking forward to it. You’d better tell me everything that happens with Achilles, okay? And old Polarius, and your mother. I may be a convicted murderer, but I’m still your best friend.”

Patroclus gave her a look. “Don’t joke like that.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Briseis grinned. The guard appeared around the corner and her smile faltered. “Looks like you have to leave now. I’ll see you tomorrow though.”

“Tomorrow,” Patroclus promised. He hugged her as best he could through the bars and pressed a kiss to her cheek. _Tomorrow, and then the day after, and then the day after. That’s all the time we have left before I go to Skyros. And then, you die._

He fought back anger. _I’m a prince of Opus. I am not a warrior. I save lives, I don’t take them, and this is one life I cannot save. When did this become my life? What did we do to deserve this?_

It was ironic, in a sick kind of way, that a small fruit-thief who had never been caught was being put to death over a crime she had not actually committed.

 

 

He went to Achilles at night. They lay naked beside each other on the lynx furs, protected by the warmth of the cave and the heat of each other’s bodies, just watching each other, tracing each other’s outlines with soft, sure hands that already knew their way around. Patroclus’s fingers ran down the lines of Achilles’s chest, watching his skin flicker red and orange and yellow from the light of the fire burning in the corner. Achilles’s fingers sculpted Patroclus’s face, smoothing his cheeks, parting his lips, carving the curve of his jaw.

They did not speak. They did not sleep. They lay there, memorizing each other and making silent promises to never forget.

 

 

His mother forgot.

Patroclus went to her in the morning, and she did not know who he was. She remembered his father, but only by name; when he went to see her, she did not know him either.

Polarius was right. All they could do was keep her comfortable and hope for the best. But even that fool’s hope was dwindling, and even healer’s lies could not mask the truth.

Patroclus was losing Achilles. He was losing Briseis. And he was losing his mother, too.

 

 

Her body died the next day. Her mind was already gone.

 

 

Patroclus watched as the women took his mother’s body from the bed to prepare it for the funeral. His eyes were dry, and his heart was empty. It was like all emotion had fled from him, and he burrowed deep into his own mind and put walls around himself, blocking out the rest of the world.

Menoitius was stone-faced as he watched Philomena be carried away. She did not even look like his mother anymore. Even in illness, his mother was of golden smiles and gentle whispers and soft touches. The corpse was pale, angled with ridges of bone.

“I won’t be at the pyre,” Patroclus said numbly.

Menoitius was silent.

“ _Prothesis_ is tomorrow. I leave tomorrow. I will have only a few minutes to see the body,” Patroclus said.

Still, Menoitius was silent.

“I won’t be at the pyre,” Patroclus said again.

“No,” Menoitius said.

The women carried her out of the room, and she disappeared from sight.

Patroclus went to see Briseis. He told her of his mother’s death.

“I’m sorry,” Briseis whispered. “I know you were close with her.”

_You’ll be fine, I promise._

Patroclus couldn’t speak, and Briseis didn’t expect him to. The ten minutes ticked away, and they sat in silence, separated by an eternity of iron, connected only by the gentle touch of Briseis’s fingertips on Patroclus’s palm.

The guard came.

“I’ll come tomorrow,” Patroclus said. He did not promise. A healer’s promise could not be trusted. But Briseis smiled as if it was enough.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

Their last meeting before she died.

 

 

Patroclus went to Achilles. He was waiting for him by the edge of the forest this time and held out a folded piece of cloth as Patroclus approached.

“For you,” he murmured.

Patroclus took it, his eyes widening as he realized what it was; the green chiton Achilles had lent him the day after he had saved him from Paris.

“I thought, since you’re leaving, there’s no need to hide it anymore,” he said quietly. “Unfold it, there’s something else.”

Patroclus did, and a small carved wooden fish threaded with a leather string fell out into his hand. He gasped. “Achilles, did you…did you make this?” It was intricately carved, its tail flipping as if it were diving beneath the waves, its mouth open and its gills flaring, its surface smooth and polished.

Achilles just gave him a soft smile.

“I didn’t bring you anything,” Patroclus mumbled. “I should’ve, I’m leaving tomorrow…”

Achilles shook his head, cupping his chin and kissing him gently. “No. You have already given me everything, Patroclus.” He saw Patroclus fumbling to tie the string around his neck and reached around, his deft fingers tying the knot easily, brushing against Patroclus’s skin. “I thought a fish would be apt, since we went fishing when you kissed me for the first time.”

Patroclus blushed, ducking his head down and fingering the small figure. “It’s beautiful.”

“Come,” Achilles murmured, taking his hand and leading him back into the forest. There was no moon, but Patroclus knew the way by now, stepping over a root and ducking his head under a low-hanging branch that he could barely see even by the light of the stars. They walked silently, like shades, like passing thoughts.

Not for the first time, Patroclus wondered if Skyros’s forests looked the same.

He knew they wouldn’t. Achilles wasn’t part of them.

They went to the cave again and lay beside each other, but they were closer this time, too close to watch each other. They pressed their bodies together so their heartbeats shook each other’s chests and they could feel the blood thrumming through each other’s veins. Achilles’s head was ducked down, his nose pressed into the sensitive skin between Patroclus’s collarbones and his golden hair tickling Patroclus’s chin. His hands were still, one slung over Patroclus’s waist and the other curled against his chest, and presently, Patroclus moved his hand to hold it.

“My mother died,” Patroclus said quietly.

“I know.”

Patroclus wasn’t surprised. Achilles was like a god. He knew everything.

“I’m not going to be able to see her when she’s buried,” he murmured. “The viewing of her body is tomorrow, and she’s burning the day after. I’m going to be on my way to Skyros by then.”

Achilles’s hand tightened comfortingly on Patroclus’s waist.

“And Briseis is dying tomorrow,” Patroclus said.

Achilles drew back and looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

Patroclus couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s my fault,” he said. “Well, not really my fault, I’m not the one sentencing her to death, but I might as well be. I talked to my father, and he wouldn’t listen. And I promised – I promised her that I would find out who really did it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Achilles’s green eyes glowed in the darkness, and they were fixed on his face. He did not speak.

“I love you,” Patroclus said, silently, with a gentle touch of his fingers over his lips.

Achilles did not speak, but he answered with the intensity of his gaze.

Their love had no words.

Patroclus looked at him, his gaze following the arch of his eyebrows and the line of his jaw, the gentle waves of his golden hair that fell across his face as he lay on his side. He, for the thousandth time, traced the curves of his lips and the straight ridge of his nose. He watched the way Achilles blinked, just a flicker of movement in an otherwise still face, watched the way Achilles’s eyes moved over him, startlingly green and unashamed. He listened to the silence of his breathing, the thumping of his heart, which he could just barely hear if he pressed his ear to Achilles’s chest, the quiet with which he moved to accommodate him.

And when Achilles moved to kiss him and rolled his hips against him, Patroclus memorized the way Achilles felt in his hand, the way Achilles’s breath came hot and fast over his skin, the way Achilles clenched around him when Patroclus took him for the last time. He listened to the way his name left Achilles’s lips in a gasp and resolved to remember it forever.

He wouldn’t forget.

He couldn’t forget.

He could never forget Achilles.

 

 

They didn’t say good-bye the next morning. Saying it out loud would make it real. So Patroclus just kissed him and held him tight, feeling him in his arms one last time. He felt the warmth of Achilles around him and wished it would never end, wished Achilles would never let go.

They parted.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Patroclus said.

“Tomorrow,” Achilles echoed.

Neither of them acknowledged the lie.

 

 

After stowing the green chiton safely in one of his bags, Patroclus went to see Briseis.

“Hey,” she murmured. She reached for his hand through the bars and attempted a smile. “I thought you were leaving today.”

“I am. Before noon. I just needed to see you first.”

Briseis squeezed his hand. “I’m glad,” she said quietly.

Patroclus bit his lip. “What do you want to talk about?”

She shrugged. “Anything you want to talk about. You know that, Pat. Anything works for me.”

So he talked. Not about leaving, or Skyros, or his mother, or even Achilles. He talked about when he and Briseis were younger and they ran through the streets as if they weren’t prince and servant. He talked about when she would sneak figs from the old rich men like Odysseus for them to snack on while they hid in the cupboards after lunch, about when they would sneak through the castle and she would show him all the hidden passages that the servants took to stay out of sight and move like ghosts. And he talked about when he first had a crush on a beautiful dancer that had been sent to his father as a gift and couldn’t keep his eyes off him and Briseis teased him nonstop about it until he’d lost his virginity to him, and he would’ve sworn that she only stopped out of jealousy.

It was only when his voice had gone hoarse from talking that he realized he had been there for far longer than ten minutes.

“I figured they let you talk to me longer since…you know…” Briseis murmured with a smile. The door to the stairs opened, and her smile fell.

“I love you, Briseis,” Patroclus said forcefully, as he heard the approaching footsteps of the guard to take him away. Two pairs of footsteps. Two guards. “You’ve always been my best friend, and that’s never going to change.”

Briseis squeezed his hand. “Thank you for everything, Patroclus,” she said softly. “You’ll be okay in Skyros. I know you will. You’re strong, stronger than anyone ever thought you were, and I know you’re going to be okay.”

Patroclus looked pained as the guards approached. “Briseis…I’m sorry, Briseis –”

“No,” Briseis interrupted. “We talked about this. Not now. Not ever. Please.”

Patroclus hesitated. “Fine. For you.”

The guards stopped next to Patroclus and bowed. “My apologies; I must ask you to stand aside. It is time to remove to prisoner,” one of the guards said.

“Remove the – what?” Patroclus demanded. “What do you mean, remove the prisoner?” He turned to Briseis, fear rising in his veins. “Briseis, what is he talking about?”

Briseis gave him a pained smile. “It’s time,” she whispered.

Patroclus’s eyes widened in horror. “No. No!” He turned to the guard. “Please, not now, please!”

“I’m sorry, but the time has been set. Please, step aside.”

“No!” He clung to the bars, preventing the guard from being able to reach the lock and open the door. “No, you can’t take her!” _They can’t take her, they can’t take her, they can’t take her._

“Patroclus – Patroclus, please, stop,” Briseis begged. “You can’t stop it, and I’ll be fine, please!”

The guard turned and glanced at the other guards standing beside him, and they stepped forward, each taking a grip on one of Patroclus’s arms. He struggled, trying to break free; the guards were taken aback at first by his strength, but they recovered quickly and dragged him aside. The first guard opened the door to Briseis’s cell.

“No!” Patroclus screamed, still struggling. “Let her go, she’s innocent, please!”

Briseis let herself be taken out of the cell. “Patroclus, please,” she pleaded. “Stop this. Please. For me, just – just stop. There’s nothing you can do.”

Patroclus fought for another moment before he stopped, realizing the futility of the situation.

“I’ll be okay,” Briseis promised, but her voice was shaking.

“Let me come with you,” Patroclus whispered.

The guard shook his head. “My apologies. Your father ordered it to be a private execution. No one else is to be present.”

“Then, please just – just, one moment. One moment.”

The guard hesitated, and then nodded. “Very well.” The other two guards released Patroclus and stood back, and Patroclus rushed into Briseis’s arms, holding her tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Briseis hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Forgive yourself, Patroclus,” she murmured. “If it’s the last thing you do, please. For me. Forgive yourself. It’s not your fault.”

Patroclus bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a sob. “Briseis…”

“Shhh,” she said softly, stroking his cheek and pushing his hair back from his forehead. “It’s alright. You’re alright. I’m alright.”

“But you’re…but you…”

Briseis shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s my time. You have to accept that.”

The guard stepped forward and tapped his shoulder. Patroclus stepped back reluctantly, wiping tears from his cheeks. Briseis gave him a brave smile, and the guard led her away.

Patroclus screamed. The guards gripped his arms and he fought and yelled and cursed until his lungs and body gave out, and he sank to the ground, sobbing, as his best friend walked away from him to her death.

 

 

Patroclus went to see his mother’s body in the last minutes before the ship was to leave the shore of the river and sail to the sea. He didn’t really see the point; she no longer looked like his mother, and seeing her body wouldn’t bring her back.

Still, he went, staring down at her skeletal body that was washed clean and wrapped in a shroud and listening to the grief-stricken keening of the women, and wished that he could turn back time to when everything was bright and young and full of hope.

Menoitius was stone faced. Patroclus stood by him for a few minutes as people of the city came by to pay their respects and offer whispered condolences, and then it was time to leave.

He bowed in front of his father for the last time. “Goodbye, Father,” he said.

Menoitius dipped his head slightly. “Goodbye, Patroclus.”

Patroclus straightened and turned to embrace Polarius. “You were my best,” the old healer said gruffly. “I’ll be lucky if I ever find someone else as good as you.”

“You will,” Patroclus said, forcing a smile.

Polarius hmphed. “I’d better, or Opus is going to be in trouble whether we have peace or war. Now get going, son. You don’t want to be late for your own wedding.”

“No,” Patroclus murmured. “No, I don’t.” He looked around him, taking in the sights of the city, committing it to memory, not as it was now, but as it was before when he still had all the time in the world. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sharp winter wind that didn’t yet smell of the sea as he knew it would on Skyros, and then turned to the servants who were waiting to take him to the ship. There was nothing else left for him to do. He had seen his mother, he had said goodbye to his father and his mentor, and Briseis was now probably dead.

It was just Achilles.

_Achilles._

But he had to let him go. His heart throbbed in his chest.

_I want to see you. Every day. Forever._

_I love you, Patroclus._

_I would know you for the rest of my life._

He took a deep breath and clutched the fish around his neck. “I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a bunch of things in this chapter are historically inaccurate, but I’m going to pull the excuse that it’s an AU. Also, I know this chapter was super sad but I tagged this ‘angst with a happy ending’ for a reason and I’m not planning on going back on that, so don’t worry! Things will work out in time.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every day feels like an eternity without you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: non-con, rape

 

 

They sailed for days. The ocean wind was cold, colder than it had ever been in Opus or in the forest, especially without Achilles or Briseis beside him. He’d expected to be amazed by the ocean, by the sheer size of it and the way it looked like it never ended, but he wasn’t. Now it just reminded him of distance and emptiness and things that never were or could be.

Perhaps, if Achilles had been the one to show him, things would have been different.

He walked to the stern of the ship and leaned over the railings, closing his eyes. Skyros was just barely visible from the bow; they would reach it by nightfall. He didn’t need to see it any sooner than necessary.

 

 

King Lycomedes’s servants were waiting for them when they reached Skyros’s rocky shores. A young man approached Patroclus and bowed. He was dressed as a servant, but his steps were graceful, his face delicately formed and his eyebrows elegantly arched. If not for his clothes, he could be a prince.

“The princess has assigned me to be your personal servant. I am here to take you to your chambers,” he said, his voice high and lilting like a singer’s. “Your possessions will be brought to you shortly and the princess is waiting to meet you. She will be expecting you at dinner tonight.”

Patroclus nodded numbly.

 _The princess is waiting to meet you_.

The princess, who he would marry.

It should have been Achilles.

 

 

The castle sat at the top of a hill, looking over the rest of Skyros on one side and the ocean on the other. There were no walls around the main city like there was at Opus; there was no need. The sea and the deadly shore were walls enough.

The servant led him through the cobblestone-paved streets lined with simple, clean houses. Some of the windows were open; here, surrounded by seas on all sides, the winds were not as cold as the dry airs of Opus. The castle itself, which they reached after a mere few minutes, was relatively small and sparsely but elegantly furnished. Torches cast soft glows on the high stone walls, and large windows opened out over the glittering moonlit sea. It was beautiful, in a strange, foreign way, and humid from sea spray, far from the dusty streets of Opus.

The servant led him up two flights of stairs and stopped outside a large, ornate door.

“Your chambers,” he said, bowing.

“Thank you,” Patroclus said.

The servant bowed again. “Dinner will be ready within the hour. I will return for you then. The princess expects that you dress for the occasion.” He straightened and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Patroclus called. The servant turned, lowering his head expectantly. “What do I call you?”

The servant looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that before. Skyros did not treat its servants the same way Opus did, after all. “My name is Agapetos,” the servant said quietly.

“Agapetos,” Patroclus echoed. _Beloved._

The servant gave him a small smile, bowed again, and departed.

Patroclus entered the room. It was large for a castle of this size though not as large as his chambers had been at Opus, and a simple washroom extended off to the side, separated from the main chambers for extra privacy by a curtain hanging from the ceiling. A large bed rested in the middle of the room in between two large windows, and a small bed stand stood to the right of the bed, its lamp already lit. He walked to one of the windows and leaned out of it, breathing in the cold sea air and listening to the rough ocean waves crash against the shore. He couldn’t see the moon even though it was already in the sky; the window faced west.

Faced Opus.

Faced Achilles.

Presently, there was a knock at the door, and Patroclus straightened, stepping back from the window that he had half a mind to jump out of so he could run back to the sea and the ship and sail back to Achilles. “Come in,” he called.

Two Skyros servants entered, carrying bags from the ship. They set them down on the floor where Patroclus indicated.

“Is there anything else we may do for you?” one of them asked. They looked and talked differently than Agapetos; Agapetos must have come to Skyros from elsewhere.

“No. Thank you,” Patroclus said, turning back to the window. The door clicked closed quietly, indicated the servants’ departure. He let out a deep breath and watched the ocean for another few moments before he forced himself to step back.

Deidameia would be waiting for him at dinner. So would Lycomedes. He had to make a good impression; his marriage to the king’s daughter was keeping peace for his people, and he had to do everything in his power to ensure that the marriage went through.

He went to the washroom, where he found that oils and soaps were already set aside the bath, and a washcloth was hanging on a rack nearby. He filled the bath with water and stepped in, letting the warmth soak into his bones as he scrubbed himself clean. When he was finished, he stepped out and dried himself with another cloth before going to his packs and pulling out the green chiton.

He had never really appreciated its simple beauty. It was light and soft against his skin, draping lightly over his shoulders and adding a burst of mint-colored freshness to his dark skin. The edges of the rectangle of cloth were decorated with a line of gold; something he hadn’t noticed the first time he had worn it.

_The princess expects that you dress for the occasion._

Funny, then, that he would be wearing Achilles’s gifts during his first meeting with his wife.

 

 

Agapetos returned for him to lead him to dinner.

“I…I’m assuming this is good enough?” Patroclus asked, gesturing at the chiton. “It’s the nicest one I have.”

Agapetos swept his eyes over him and bowed his head. “Yes, master.”

“Call me Patroclus,” Patroclus said. “Please.”

The servant bowed, a small smile on his face. “Yes, Patroclus.”

“And stop bowing at me. All this formality…it’s making me nervous. I don’t like it. Just treat me like you would treat one of your friends, okay?”

Agapetos hesitated.

Patroclus stepped forward. “Look, Agapetos, if you really are supposed to be my personal servant for the rest of my life, I don’t want our interactions to be all ‘yes master’ this and ‘yes master’ that and bowing all the time. Please. My best friend at Opus was a servant, and she treated me nothing like a prince, and that’s what I loved about her. So please, don’t do any different for me.”

“Very well, mas – Patroclus,” Agapetos said, clearly fighting the urge to bow again.

Patroclus smiled for the first time since he had left Opus. “Good. Now let’s go to dinner.”

Agapetos turned and lead Patroclus down the hall to the stairs. When they reached the bottom, he paused. “Servants are not permitted to eat with the household,” he said. “The dining hall is down this hall and to the right; you will not miss it. You will be presented to the court as Deidameia’s future husband. I must prepare for the performance.”

Patroclus stopped. “Performance?”

A small smile turned Agapetos’s lips. “Tell me you have heard of Deidameia’s dancers?”

Patroclus frowned, shaking his head. “No.”

“Well, after tonight, you will know,” Agapetos said. “Now go, Deidameia is waiting for you.”

Patroclus nodded once. “Okay.” He took a deep breath and started towards the dining hall.

There were indeed servants waiting, some of Opus, some of Skyros. They all bowed as he approached and two stepped forward to open the doors. One of the servants walked in first and bowed, once again, to where Patroclus knew Deidameia and Lycomedes were waiting.

“Prince Patroclus Menotiades of Opus,” the servant announced, stepping back.

Patroclus walked forward into the hall.

 

 

Though there were many women gathered in the hall, it was unmistakable which one was Deidameia. Her beauty radiated through the room as the light from the torches glittered off of her golden crown, and the fine white cloth draped over her slim figure seemed to shimmer. Her features were small and delicate but somehow cold and harsh, framed by glossy dark curls; her beauty was such that even in an age where the most beautiful women were pale and golden-haired, she radiated. She stood as Patroclus entered, sweeping her cold gray gaze over him, and smiled.

“Welcome, Patroclus,” she said. She held out a delicate, pale hand, which Patroclus took and pressed to his lips. Her smile widened. “Skyros is honored to have you. You will be seated beside me tonight and onwards.” She withdrew her hand and sat back down.

Patroclus bowed in front of the king seated on her other side and sat down in the chair set for him.

“Let us eat,” Deidameia said, and servants entered bearing plate upon plate of food, setting them on the table before retreating and filing back out the door. The meal consisted of many different kinds of fish in strange sauces and something he’d never eaten before called lobster. It was salty and rich and surprisingly good, with a strange chewy, fibrous texture. Deidameia took small, delicate bites as she watched him eat.

“Tell me, Patroclus, how are you enjoying your stay thus far? Is everything satisfactory?”

Patroclus swallowed his bite of lobster. “It’s wonderful,” he said.

Deidameia smiled, pleased. “The dancers will be entering soon. I would be among them on any other night, but I wanted to meet you. I thought that getting acquainted with my future husband was more important than for me to be with my dancers tonight.”

Patroclus forced a smile. “I’m glad you thought that.”

She smiled haughtily and kept eating.

Patroclus was working on getting the meat out of his second lobster claw when the doors opened and the dancers filed in, a group of about two dozen men and women. Deidameia sat up straighter, her eyes fixed on the group. Several men took up drums, flutes, and lyres and struck up a tune, and the dancers began to dance.

Patroclus’s eyes were on Agapetos, his dark hair brushed back neatly and his skin gleaming with oil, his wrists and ankles flashing with gold. The other men were dressed in much the same way, but no one moved with the same grace nor ease, not even the women with their flowing white dresses.

The dancers swirled around each other, wrists twirling and ankles glittering as they wove between each other to the beat of the music, dancing like white swans with their elegantly arched necks, like a pair of larks flitting through the air with their flashing wings, like silver fish diving through the waves with their gleaming scales.

Agapetos twirled faster, his eyes only on his partner, a young girl with raven hair and piercing blue eyes set in a face the color of warm honey. They spun and leapt, weaving around each other, and when the music stopped, they were pressed close, chests heaving, foreheads dotted with beads of sweat.

Deidameia looked pleased as she turned to Patroclus. “Well, Patroclus?”

“Exquisite,” Patroclus murmured. His voice was hollow.

He had never seen Achilles dance, but he had seen him when he ran, when he fought, when he leapt through the trees, and only Agapetos had even begun to come close to his grace.

Deidameia’s teeth flashed white in a smile.

 

 

They were married on the tenth of December as planned, during which the servants presented Lycomedes and Deidameia with the gifts Patroclus had brought and Patroclus presented Lycomedes with the dagger. Skyros was a small island with a small population, and the wedding was relatively private. He and Deidameia were proclaimed married, and Patroclus breathed a sigh of relief.

Opus was safe.

But he was not.

Deidameia brought him to her room the night after their wedding, ignoring his protests that he was tired and just wanted to rest to mask his growing apprehension at what he knew she would ask of him. She closed the door behind her and took his hand, leading him to her bed and laying down on it.

“Patroclus,” she murmured. Her cheeks were flushed with wine and her eyes were bright.

“No,” Patroclus said. “No, Deidameia…”

She sat up, her eyes flashing. “You’re my husband, Patroclus.”

Patroclus shook his head. “I…I, yes, but –”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Deidameia demanded. She lifted the bottom of her dress teasingly to expose her pale, smooth thighs, a sly smirk spreading over her face. “Don’t you love me, husband? Don’t you want me?” She stood and walked towards Patroclus, her breath hot on his cheek as she brushed her lips against his jaw.

Patroclus didn’t move.

_I am Achilles’s husband, not yours._

Deidameia drew back, her eyes narrowing in anger. “What’s wrong with you? Are you _incapable_ or something?”

“I’m perfectly capable,” Patroclus snapped, bristling. _Achilles could tell you. Achilles could tell you everything, and then you wouldn’t dare talk to me like this again._

Deidameia smirked again. “So then…what are you waiting for? Am I not what you like?” She ducked her head and looked up at him through her lashes. “Take me, Patroclus,” she whispered. “Take your wife. Give me your seed, give me a child. Our child.”

Patroclus hesitated.

“Fine,” Deidameia snapped, her entire demeanor changing abruptly. She pushed him away. “You’re tired, I’ll accept that. Tonight. But tomorrow, I’m not letting you go this easy.” She shook her hair behind her shoulders haughtily. “Now go. Rest. I will expect you tomorrow.”

Without another word, Patroclus turned and left the room.

He did go back the next day after dinner, following her to her room because her father was watching with stone cold eyes, expecting him to make her happy.

_For my people._

Deidameia lay down on the bed again, hitching her dress up around her waist and spreading her legs as she looked at Patroclus expectantly. He walked forward hesitantly and she smiled, wriggling her hips. She pulled him down and pressed her lips against his, taking his hand and moving it to the heat between her legs.

Patroclus felt like he’d frozen. The wetness felt foreign and was slick between his fingers, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

He swallowed.

“Come on, Patroclus, _move_ ,” Deidameia hissed. “Have you never pleasured a woman before?”

Patroclus swallowed again and moved his fingers in an experimental stroke, biting his lip as she sighed and bucked her hips up against him.

“Yes, Patroclus,” she gasped, arching her back and pressing her breasts against his skin. They were soft and smelled sweet with the scented oil she had spread over herself, and his heart hammered at the strangeness of it.

No, he had never pleasured a woman before. His father had presented him with the most beautiful of the servant girls, but he had never been interested. They were never what he wanted, with their sullen expressions, eyes dulled and tired by what Patroclus knew they were being forced to do. He had never wanted a part of that. He’d had his dancer, and then he’d had Achilles.

Deidameia wound her fingers through his hair and pushed her tongue into his mouth, her breath hot against him.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Enter me.”

Patroclus closed his eyes, shame rising in his cheeks. “I…”

Deidameia looked at him, and then down at his crotch where his dick lay limp between his thighs. She raised a thin eyebrow, her mouth curling into a frown of disgust. “Am I not good enough for you?” she demanded. “Why are you not up?”

Patroclus looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “No…no, it has nothing to do with you.”

“What then? You say you are capable, and yet you say it has nothing to do with me.” Deidameia’s eyes widened in realization. “You…you don’t like women,” she gasped. She pushed him away and scrambled away from him until her back was pressed against the headrest of the bed. “You’ve never…”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Patroclus said again, his cheeks heating.

Deidameia looked disgusted. “I married you,” she hissed. “I ensured the safety of Opus because I thought you would make a good husband, and it turns out you don’t even like women. You can’t get it up around women. Well, let me tell you something, Patroclus. You’d better find a way, because I need a child, and you’re going to give it to me.”

“You can’t force me,” Patroclus said, stepping away from her.

“Oh yes I can,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “If you don’t, I’ll tell my father _you_ forced me, I will tell him you are not what I wanted, not what I needed, and then your truce will be off.”

Patroclus felt like his heart had stopped.

Deidameia smiled. “Figure it out, Patroclus.”

So he did.

He went to her the next night, and the next night, and the next, because she asked him to, and he had no other choice if he wanted to protect his people from war. He went and thought of Achilles when she kissed him, tried to pretend it was his lips against his skin, tried to pretend it was his hands between his legs, tried to pretend it was his body he was entering.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. But it worked one day in early January, and one month later she told him she was with child.

 

 

Except for at mealtimes, Patroclus barely saw her for the next eight months of her pregnancy. He stayed in his room, brooding, unable to get Deidameia and what she had forced him to do out of his mind. He grew skittish, flinching at every touch, jumping to thoughts of betrayal and blackmail at every word, and in the rare moments when he could think of something else, he thought of Achilles and how he felt like he had betrayed him.

Agapetos, who Patroclus liked to think of as a friend now, came to his room occasionally to take old sheets and bring fresh ones, and he noticed the change. “Patroclus,” he said quietly one night.

Patroclus, who was standing by the window, turned to look over his shoulder. “What?”

Agapetos took a cautious step towards him. “You are unhappy,” he said.

Patroclus snorted. “What gave you that idea?”

The other man’s voice was gentle. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing.” Patroclus almost spat the word. He clenched his fists, remembering the pale white of Deidameia’s arched throat seared into the back of his eyes, remembering the harsh scratches of her nails on his back that burned him like fire, remembering the shame and disgust he felt for himself when it was finished. He took a shuddering breath, forcing his voice to sound calmer; it wasn’t Agapetos’s fault. “There’s nothing.”

“You’re my friend,” Agapetos said, his voice rich with concern. “Please, let me help you. There must be something.” Agapetos touched Patroclus’s hand and Patroclus flinched; he hadn’t heard him come that close.

“My apologies,” Agapetos said quickly, drawing back.

“No, no, it’s alright,” Patroclus muttered, forcing himself to stay still. It had been nine months, and the child was due to be born soon. He had to be a father. He had to get over it. It was nothing, he told himself.

Deidameia’s sigh of release echoed in his ears.

“Would you like to talk?” Agapetos asked quietly.

Patroclus bit his lip, unable to meet his eyes. Thoughts and memories rushed through him, overwhelming him, forcing him to put up barriers in his mind that he cowered behind.

“Patroclus,” Agapetos said, more insistently.

Patroclus forced himself to look up.

“It might help,” Agapetos said. His voice was gentle.

Patroclus clenched and unclenched his muscles, digging his nails into his palm and feeling his breath come fast and harsh in his throat as he struggled to remain in control. His vision began to grow fuzzy at the edges as Deidameia’s bright, cold gray eyes burned into him, so different from Achilles’s soft green.

Achilles would never have done this to him.

He took a shuddering breath and clutched the wooden fish around his neck so tightly that it left ridges and valleys in his palm, trying to ground himself with the pain. “No,” he managed, his voice thin and shaky. “No, I don’t want to talk.”

He took Agapetos’s face in his hands and kissed him.

 

 

The child, a son, was born at the end of September. He was named Antigonos. _Against the ancestor._ It was a clear jab against Patroclus, but Patroclus couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Lycomedes and Deidameia raised him to be a king. Patroclus was father in name only.

He and Agapetos didn’t speak of the kiss. It hadn’t gone further than that; just a kiss with closed lips, neither of them uttering more than soft sighs. And then Patroclus had stepped back, turned away in shame, and Agapetos had left.

They stayed friends. A year passed, and then another, and then Deidameia came to him again.

“Take me again,” she ordered. She had just danced and feasted on fresh fish and wine, and her cheeks were flushed with it, her speech slightly slurred. “Come on, husband. I want you. I see how you look at Agapetos, and I want you to look at me that way.” She gripped his arm. “It’s been so long, Patroclus. Take me again.”

_I see how you look at Agapetos._

No. No, she had it wrong. It had happened once, and never again.

“I already gave you a son,” he hissed. “What more do you want from me?”

“You’re my husband, and I want that which comes with marriage. You won’t deny me if you care for your people,” Deidameia said, pulling him along to her chambers, and then her white skin was once again seared into the back of his eyes, her nails once again burned at his back, his cheeks once again reddened with shame and disgust.

_Once, and never again._

He hated her. He hated the way she made him feel. Him, the lover of Achilles, the greatest warrior to ever have lived, him, the prince of Opus, who boasted two of the best modern soldiers in all of Greece.

_Never again._

But every time when they finished and he left his wife lying naked and sated on the sheets, he went once again to Agapetos.

It wasn’t because he didn’t still love Achilles. It wasn’t because he hated Deidameia for what she had forced him to do and wanted to spite her by willingly taking a servant over her. And worst, it wasn’t even because he loved Agapetos in that way. It was out of shame and guilt and the need to rid himself of all trace of her, replace her harsh touches with Agapetos’s gentle ones, replace her wine-flavored kisses with honey-flavored ones, replace her cold, cold gray eyes with soft brown ones.

He couldn’t stand her touching him, and Achilles wasn’t here, and Agapetos was his only friend.

And Agapetos let him, his lips parted with want, his legs spreading to invite Patroclus in, his hands over Patroclus’s body and speaking of nothing but love. And Patroclus gripped his hips as Agapetos’s strong thighs wrapped around him and took him, spilling his seed deep in his body, shuddering against him as he finished.

“I’m sorry,” he said afterwards, lying on his back with Agapetos’s head resting against his chest, hating himself for what he was doing. “I can’t do this to you. It’s not right.”

Agapetos did not speak.

Patroclus swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Agapetos lifted his head to look at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

Patroclus couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s wrong,” he said, avoiding the question because no, he didn’t want him to leave, even though what he was doing was wrong, even though he was still Achilles’s forever. “I’m not doing this because I…because I love you in that way, and we both know that. I’m using you, and you’re my friend.”

“I’m your servant,” Agapetos corrected.

“You’re my friend,” Patroclus repeated forcefully. “And I can’t keep doing this to you.”

Agapetos shifted so he was looking down on Patroclus. “She forced you,” he said. “You didn’t want to, and she forced you, and now you’re trying to find a way to cope with it.”

“It’s wrong,” Patroclus whispered.

Agapetos gave him a small smile. “It’s alright,” he said quietly.

“ _No_ ,” Patroclus insisted. His gaze flickered up to Agapetos’s eyes. “No, it’s not just that. It’s not just that you’re my friend and I’m using you, even though that in itself is enough for me to hate myself for what I’m doing. It’s that…there’s someone else. Someone back at home who I promised the rest of my life to, who I said I would be devoted to forever. And…and Deidameia made me break that promise to him, and when she forced me, I felt anger and disgust and shame and fear and confusion and the Gods know what else, and the only way I knew to get rid of that was to try and find someone who _wouldn’t_ force me, someone who would remind me that there was still good and kindness for me. And it just so happened to be you who gave me that. But in…in what we’re doing, I’m still breaking my promise.” His voice broke.

Agapetos drew back, his forehead furrowing. “There’s…someone else?”

“Yes,” Patroclus whispered.

“But it’s been three years, Patroclus,” Agapetos said gently. “You must know that you will not see him again. What you are doing is not wronging him, and you must understand that. He cannot expect you to remain faithful to him for the rest of your life if you are to be separated. You must let him go.”

“I can’t,” Patroclus said, and his hand went up to where the fish lay at his throat.

Agapetos’s eyes followed the movement of his hand. “That’s…from him?”

“Yes.” Patroclus swallowed. “And even if I let him go, it’s still wrong. I’m using you.”

“We both know that nothing can come of it,” Agapetos said softly. “I do not expect anything from you, and I never did. I know you cannot love me that way, and yet I willingly offer myself to you when you need me. It is what I am here for, no? To serve you, to help you? So let me.”

Patroclus shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” He looked at Agapetos. “You may be a servant, but you are still human. You deserve nothing less than to be treated like the best of us.”

He turned away. Briseis’s bright smile and laughing eyes flashed through his mind. “No one knows that better than I.”

 

 

Their second son was born at the end of May, as the flowers bloomed and the ocean winds turned warm and birds sang among the trees. Damokles, he was named. Glory of the people.

His sons had strong names. They would bring his father the glory and fame he had wanted, just as Patroclus had brought Opus the peace it needed and deserved. The boys grew strong and sure and Deidameia was proud, and Patroclus barely knew them.

They looked like her. All cold gray eyes and thick dark hair and fine, pointed features. Only their skin bore any markings of Patroclus’s genes, just a shade darker than their mother’s. They were beautiful children, and they were Deidameia’s children, and they were born and raised to be kings.

Antigonos did become king, seven years after he was born. But there were things that happened first.

 

 

Patroclus never touched Agapetos again. Not in that way. It was wrong, he knew, and both of them deserved better than to use and be used.

Agapetos taught him how to dance instead, and Patroclus taught him how to fight. Deidameia didn’t know, and neither of them planned on ever telling her. But it helped. There were no words to describe the way Patroclus felt every day that she forced him into her, no words to describe the sense of shame and dirtiness that overwhelmed him, no words to describe the anger with which he returned from her chambers and the desire to destroy something.

He channeled it into the spins and twirls of the Skyros dances and the leaps and feints of Achilles’s spearwork, moving until he was exhausted and had no choice but to stop, and then they talked about healing, for Agapetos had also been a healer of Aeneas once, before he was captured and brought to Skyros as a servant.

The fighting was better for both of them, and it helped him remember Achilles.

Because it had been six years, and Achilles had begun to fade from his mind. Patroclus still remembered the piercing, dazzling green of his eyes, but he no longer remembered if his irises were dotted with gold or bronze. He still remembered the silence of his breaths and movements, but he no longer remembered the rhythm of his existence or the ratio of his inhale to his exhale. He still remembered the soft musicality of his voice, but he no longer remembered what exactly made the way he said his words so different.

It terrified him, how quickly he was beginning to forget, and at night he held onto the wooden fish at his breast, clutching it to him, willing himself to remember the little things that were slipping away.

He did the same with Briseis. He had known her longer, but that didn’t seem to matter. The details of her were slipping away too. He recognized the hazel of her eyes when he saw the sun shine through a jar of honey and recognized the gleam of her hair when he saw the sun flash on a hawk’s feathers, but that was all. He couldn’t conjure her up from memory, and he no longer remembered what her voice sounded like. It was distorted in his mind, corrupted from six years of her absence, so he sought out things that made him remember, went looking for jars of honey, for soaring hawks, for children, just so he could hear the utter joy and carefreeness of their laughs and remember just how much they sounded like Briseis.

 

 

Another year passed, and another. King Lycomedes died, and Patroclus’s oldest son became king with Deidameia at his side to guide and advise him. He was seven years old, and it had been eight years since Patroclus had come to Skyros. He was now thirty, and Achilles was still twenty-five. Distantly, he wondered if Achilles had moved on, if he had been able to let go.

“You have two sons,” Patroclus said to Deidameia one day. It was mid-November, and last night’s frost still covered the ground. “And you have a new king. Are you satisfied?”

Deidameia turned to him. She had not changed in eight years, while the faintest of lines had begun to form on Patroclus’s face. “Yes,” she said. “As satisfied as I will ever be with a husband like you.” Her voice was cold, distant. She had not forced him to sleep with her for over three years, for which Patroclus could not have been more grateful.

“My sons are going to be good men,” she continued, turning away from him and watching them spar on the grass in the courtyard, leaving dark marks on the grass where they had stepped and disrupted the frozen stillness. One boy was seven and one was four, but still, Patroclus could see the strength that lay still hidden in their young limbs, the fierceness that rested dormant in their soft faces.  “Antigonos will be a good king. Damokles will be a warrior. They will both be better men than you.”

Patroclus could not argue with that. “Would it please you if I left?” he asked.

Deidameia turned back to him and looked at him for a long time. “Yes,” she said finally. “It would please me.”

“And would your father’s truce stand if I did?”

Deidameia met his gaze evenly with her cold, cold eyes. “For that,” she said, “you will have to ask your king.”

 

 

Antigonos sat on his grandfather’s throne, regarding Patroclus with an odd sort of curiosity. “Father,” he said, his boy’s voice high and shrill. The title sounded odd in his mouth; Patroclus did not see this boy as his son. “What is it you ask of me?”

“I ask for your permission to leave this island and return to Opus,” Patroclus said. “My purpose here has been served; I was sent to wed your mother and give her a son. That I have done. There is nothing left for me to do here.”

Antigonos turned to Deidameia who stood by his side, asking her for her advice. He was king, but he was still just a boy, and he had much to learn, even if he was already of the age where mothers and fathers came secondary to mentors, even if he was more mature for his age than any other boy Patroclus had ever seen.

His sons did not love him, and Patroclus did not love his sons. They were born of force and shame, and he saw their mother’s pale body writhing beneath him, forcing him to enter her, every time he looked at them.

No, he could not love them.

Antigonos waited for his mother to respond, and Patroclus’s heart pounded hard in his chest. Then Deidameia gave Antigonos a nod, and Antigonos turned back to Patroclus.

“You have permission,” he said.

Patroclus let out a shaky breath. But he couldn’t relax. Not yet.  “If I were to leave, would King Lycomedes’s truce still stand?”

Antigonos tilted his chin upwards proudly. He did not need his mother’s advice for this particular question. “I see no reason to start a war,” he said. “Skyros enjoys its peace, and so Opus may do so as well. His truce will stand.”

Patroclus bowed. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“It’s not for you,” Antigonos said sharply. “It’s for my people. I don’t owe you anything, and if it weren’t for the fact that the truce is also keeping my people alive, I would call it off just to spite you. You did what was expected of you, and nothing more than that. I don’t owe you anything at all.”

Patroclus was silent. He could not argue, and he didn’t care enough to even if he could.

“When do you wish to leave?” Deidameia asked, sounding almost bored.

“As soon as possible.”

Antigonos’s eyes were cold, just like his mother’s. “Then we will prepare a ship for you. You will sail in two days.”

“One more thing,” Patroclus said. “I would have my servant, Agapetos, leave with me.”

Antigonos waved his hand dismissively. “He is your personal servant. Do with him what you wish, it is of no matter to me.”

Patroclus bowed again and retreated. His heart skipped a beat as he closed the doors behind him, his eyes widening and his breath coming fast in his throat as what had just happened sank in.

He was leaving Skyros in two days.

He was going home.

He was going to see Achilles again.

 

 

He called Agapetos to his chambers the morning he was to leave. His belongings were packed and had already been carried down to the docks, and he was to leave within the hour.

Agapetos greeted him with a smile. “Patroclus,” he said, with that lilting voice of his.

“Come with me?” Patroclus asked. “I will not be returning to Opus, but you will have a good life there. You are a healer. My mentor would appreciate having someone like you. You will not be a servant any longer, Agapetos. You will be a healer again.”

Agapetos hesitated. “I am not sure if the king will allow it.”

“He has,” Patroclus said, smiling. “I have asked him. He has agreed.”

Still, Agapetos hesitated. “You will not be there,” he said.

“No,” Patroclus agreed. “Not always. But I will be nearby, and I will come see you, and you can come see me. Do you remember when I told you there was someone else I had left at home? I will be with him, and we will not be far. We will see each other.”

Agapetos bit his lip. “Alright,” he said finally, a small, nervous smile spreading over his face. “I will come with you, and you will visit me.”

“Yes,” Patroclus said, his smile widening.

And so Agapetos came with him to Opus.

They sailed back across the vast ocean but Patroclus stood at the bow this time, smiling as the cold sea mist sprayed against his face, as the saltiness filled his lungs.

_I’m going home._

Agapetos stood with him, mostly silent, occasionally asking questions about what Opus was like, about the people he would meet. Patroclus talked about the way it used to be, the way he remembered it, even though he knew that it wouldn’t be the same now, eight years later.

Still, when they reached Opus’s shores, it looked the same. It was the same dusty streets, the same high hills, the same white walls.

Patroclus felt a pang in his heart. It was the same, except for Briseis.

Patroclus stopped by the gates of the city, standing back in the shadows as the servants entered, instructing one of them to find Polarius and tell him to come to the lower city to find him. The servant nodded and raced up towards the castle sitting at the top of the hill, and Agapetos looked at him nervously.

“It’s alright,” Patroclus said, grinning. “I think you’ll like it, and Polarius will like you. Don’t be too intimidated by his grumpiness; that’s just his way.”

Agapetos chewed his lip, still nervous. His eyes flitted around the city, taking in the dusty streets, the children running, the people milling around. It was now late November, and colder, and he shivered.

“The cold is something you will have to get used to,” Patroclus said.

“I like it,” Agapetos murmured. “It’s refreshing.”

A quarter of an hour later, there was a clatter of hooves, and Polarius appeared on a large bay stallion. He dismounted, his mouth falling open in disbelief when he saw Patroclus. Patroclus laughed and rushed into his arms, squeezing him tight.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Polarius said gruffly when they parted.

Patroclus laughed. “I’m not here to stay,” he said. “But you said you needed someone as good at healing as I was, and I brought you someone.” He beckoned Agapetos forward. “His name is Agapetos. He was my servant on Skyros, but he was a healer before that.”

Polarius looked at the other man, then back at Patroclus. “You’re not staying?”

Patroclus shook his head. “No. I can’t stay here, knowing what has happened. It wouldn’t feel like home.” _Home is the forest. Home is with Achilles. Home is a place where Briseis is alive, but because she isn’t, the forest is the next best place._ “I’ll come back, though, and I’ll visit you,” he promised. One promise he could keep.

Polarius huffed. “Alright. I don’t suppose you want me telling your father you have returned?”

“No,” Patroclus said. “No, he doesn’t need to know.” Briseis was dead because of him. There was no need for another reminder of that. “I need to be going now, but I promise, I will visit. And don’t tell my father, please.”

“Doesn’t he deserve to know you’re here?” Polarius asked. “He loves you, Patroclus. He cares about you, as hard as it is to believe, and he should be able to see you again.”

Patroclus shook his head. “No. He had Briseis killed. I can’t ever forgive him for that. I can’t face him again, knowing what he did.”

Polarius bowed his head. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I’m not happy with it, but I’ll keep it quiet if I can. He won’t hear anything from me, you can be sure.” He looked at Agapetos. “Alright, come along, now, there are things we need to do today. Automedon got himself into another chariot accident,” he said to Patroclus. “Amazing he’s still up and about, you know. I think it’s about time he retires, but he loves his chariots.” He shook his head with a gruff sort of fondness. “Well, Patroclus, if you really aren’t coming back, you had better come visit frequently,” he said.

“I will,” Patroclus said. He looked at Agapetos. “I will,” he repeated.

Agapetos gave him a nervous smile. “I look forward to it. Now go; he waits for you.”

Patroclus grinned. “See you later,” he said, ignoring Polarius’s confused expression at what Agapetos had just said. A moment later, Polarius let out a sigh and shook his head, turning and leading his new apprentice back into the city, and Patroclus turned and headed towards the forest.

He started to run. His feet carried him faster and faster until he was sprinting through the trees, yelling Achilles’s name, because he was back, and he didn’t care who heard. He was back home, he was coming back to Achilles, he was on his way to spend the rest of his life with him, just eight years late.

He came to a stop by the rabbit den, his heart hammering, his face flushed, his eyes bright with excitement. Achilles wasn’t there, but Patroclus wasn’t surprised. It had been eight years, after all, and Achilles had no reason to believe he was coming back. He had no reason to come to the rabbit den and wait for him like he had done all those years ago.

So he kept running. His feet carried him automatically towards the meadow, and when he didn’t see Achilles among the flowers he ran towards the cliff, climbing up by the same path Achilles had shown him, until he emerged at the top.

By the place where the red roses bloomed in the summer, standing by the shore of the lake with cold waves lapping at his ankles, was a beautiful golden man with beautiful golden hair and, Patroclus knew, even though the man was turned away from him towards the lake, piercing green eyes.

Patroclus took a deep breath. “Achilles,” he called.

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom is summertime, as the poets say, but they forget that winter can be just as beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: some references to non-con/rape as well as some PTSD

 

 

Achilles turned, and his eyes widened in disbelief when he saw Patroclus standing behind him. “You’re…you’re here,” he whispered.

Patroclus let out a shaky laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m here.” His eyebrows met in a frown as he looked at Achilles. “What happened to you?” Achilles’s eyes were empty, dead, devoid of life. They looked cold, inhuman, like when Patroclus had first seen him.

Achilles took a cautious step towards him. “You’re…real?” he asked uncertainly. Then he shook his head, passing a hand over his eyes. “No, no, you can’t be real.”

“Achilles,” Patroclus said, walking towards him and touching his cheek, pulling his hands away from his face. “I’m really here, Achilles.”

Achilles shook his head, drawing away. “No – no, you’re just…I’m just imagining things. You’re just a shade, just like all the others…”

“Look at me,” Patroclus whispered, taking Achilles’s face in his hands. “I’m here, see?”

Still, Achilles tried to pull away. “That’s what all the others said,” he said, unable to meet his eyes. “I saw you…after you left, I saw you everywhere. I saw you by the rabbit den, walking into my cave, even here in the lake. And I would go to you, and I would…I would think it was really you, but it…wasn’t. It was never you. It was always just my eyes playing tricks on me.” He huffed a laugh. “Funny. They never used to do that to me before.”

Patroclus shook his head. “Achilles…I’m here, Achilles.”

“No. No, you’re not real. You can’t be real.”

Patroclus touched Achilles’s chin gently, turning his face towards him. He kissed him gently, for the first time in eight years, letting his lips linger briefly of Achilles’s as he looked up at him through his lashes. The air sparked, and he brushed Achilles’s beautiful golden hair away from his face. “Tell me, Achilles,” he whispered, “did that feel real?”

Achilles hesitated, a ray of hope blossoming in his eyes, giving them a little bit of life.

“I’m real,” Patroclus said softly, smiling at him. “I’m here. I’m back from Skyros, and I’m not going back there.”

“You’re back,” Achilles echoed. “I thought…I thought you couldn’t.”

“I thought so too, but I was wrong,” Patroclus said, kissing him again. “And it’s really me, I promise, and I’m not leaving.”

Slowly, Patroclus could see Achilles beginning to believe him. “You’re here,” he said. “It’s really you.” An uncertain smile spread over his face. “It’s you.” He began to laugh, and his eyes shone, and life came back to him. He flung his arms around Patroclus and held him tight like he would never let him go again, his face buried in the crook of Patroclus’s neck, his body pressing close as if he couldn’t touch him enough. “It’s you,” he said again, and Patroclus felt the wetness of tears on his skin.

“It’s me,” Patroclus laughed, and tears streaked down his own cheeks. He laughed and he cried and he held Achilles tight, because he was back, and he was never leaving him again.

 

 

They went to the cave. Patroclus didn’t have any of his bags, as they had been brought to the castle by the servants, but it didn’t matter. He was wearing the green chiton and the wooden fish carving, and that was all he needed.

It was November and Achilles had already stocked up for the winter, and piles of berries and dried fruits lay in a small hole in the cave wall, covered by dried leaves. He also had strips of meat from a large stag he had taken down a few weeks ago and Patroclus dug into it eagerly; as good as the cooked food was on Skyros, he had missed the taste of the forest.

They stayed together through winter, huddling together under the deerskin blanket for warmth – a new one now, larger and warmer. When it snowed, they took advantage of the soft powder to track game, and when they had enough meat, they built forts in the snow and threw snowballs at each other from behind them. Then they were wet and cold, but their cheeks were flushed with happiness and youth and the cold didn’t matter.

They took the time to learn each other’s bodies again. Achilles hadn’t changed. Patroclus knew he never would. But eight years had changed Patroclus ever so slightly, and Achilles’s hands and mouth explored the new panes of his body.

Patroclus didn’t take him, and Achilles didn’t ask him to. Instead, lying beside each other, Patroclus relearned the details he had forgotten on Skyros. The flecks in Achilles’s eyes weren’t gold or bronze; they were chestnut. His breathing was steady and slow and strong, and Patroclus relearned how fast he inhaled, how slowly he exhaled. The way he spoke, with his strange ancient accents and lilting voice, was seared once again into Patroclus’s brain.

It was one night in mid-January that Achilles asked him for the first time about Skyros. They lay beside each other, the fire flickering over Achilles’s shoulder, and Achilles’s fingers were on Patroclus’s face.

“It was…lonely,” Patroclus said quietly. “I was always surrounded by people, of course, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as with you.”

“And Deidameia?” Achilles asked softly, tracing Patroclus’s eyebrows with the lightest touch.

Patroclus fell silent. Guilt at what he had done reddened his cheeks at the memory of her and what he had done afterwards with Agapetos. It had been necessary, he told himself. Agapetos’s touches had kept him sane across the ocean when Achilles could not be there. And yet, the feeling of betrayal lingered.

“Patroclus?” Achilles asked, concern written all over his face. His hand moved to touch Patroclus’s cheek, and then the skin between his collarbones. “What did she do to you?” he whispered.

Patroclus swallowed and turned onto his back, unable to meet Achilles’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. He would tell him in time, he knew, but not now. He wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

“Alright,” Achilles murmured. “What about this instead?” He leaned over and kissed Patroclus gently, his hand warm and comforting against Patroclus’s side. It slipped downwards onto Patroclus’s hip and his kisses came harder as he mouthed at Patroclus’s jaw. Patroclus’s lips parted and he closed his eyes as Achilles’s touch went lower, teasing at his thighs. And then, suddenly, fear flashed through Patroclus and he froze.

“Stop,” he whispered.

Achilles withdrew immediately, flinching back like he had been stung.

“I…I can’t,” Patroclus said. His heart was racing, and all he could see was Deidameia, all he could feel was her cold gaze on him as he stood naked and vulnerable before her, her hands on him and forcing him to do things he didn’t want to do. His breath came fast and harsh, and his vision began to blur. His heart was racing, and he couldn’t control it. He didn’t understand; this had never happened before with Achilles. He had never thought about Deidameia with him, and she hadn’t come into his mind since he had returned. He had been fine, he had forgotten her, he had been free –

“Achilles,” he gasped, tears of panic brimming in his eyes as his chest heaved with his harsh breaths. “Achilles, I…I…”

“Patroclus,” Achilles said, leaning over him, his hand on Patroclus’s cheek. “Patroclus, you need to relax. Look at me.”

Patroclus forced himself to focus on Achilles’s face. It was hard, because his eyes kept wandering, kept trying to find different things to focus on.

“Relax,” Achilles murmured. He took Patroclus’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “Focus on me, alright? You need to relax. You’re okay, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Patroclus breathed in shakily and then let it out, focusing on the intensity of Achilles’s green gaze, the way the fire flickered and cast an orange glow on his golden skin, and gradually he felt his heartbeats begin to slow, felt the panic leaving him.

“Achilles,” he whispered. His cheeks were wet.

“You’re alright,” Achilles said softly. His gaze flickered away and he bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Patroclus.”

“No,” Patroclus said, and touched his cheek. Achilles glanced at him, and the piercing green gaze went straight to his soul. “No, it’s not you. It’s…Skyros. Something on Skyros.” His hands shook, and he clenched his fists to still them. “It hasn’t happened since I got back,” he said. “This…this fear. I don’t know what it is. I don’t understand it. But I promise you, Achilles, it’s not because of you.”

Achilles didn’t question him. “Okay,” he whispered, and hesitantly, giving Patroclus the time to pull back, he lifted a hand and wiped the tears from Patroclus’s face. “We’ll take it slow. Whenever you’re ready.”

Patroclus nodded jerkily. “Thank you.”

Achilles was still watching him, concern in his eyes.

“We can…we can try again now,” Patroclus said, after taking a few deep breaths.

“Are you sure?”

Patroclus nodded. “I want to get over this, and I know you can help me.”

Still, Achilles was uncertain.

Patroclus sat up, wiping his eyes dry and forcing a smile. “It’s alright, Achilles. It wasn’t you. And as long as we take it slow, I’ll be okay. I promise.” He took Achilles’s hand and put it on his thigh, pushing down the memory of pale skin that flashed behind his eyes at the touch. “See?” he said. “I’ll be okay.”

Tentatively, Achilles brought his hand up to Patroclus’s chest. “Is this alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Patroclus murmured, shifting closer to him and lying down next to him again. “More.”

Achilles touched Patroclus’s neck and slipped the tips of his fingers under his chiton, looking at Patroclus questioningly, asking him for permission to keep going. Patroclus took a deep breath and nodded.

Achilles slipped the chiton from Patroclus’s shoulders, easing it out from under his body. Patroclus’s breath hitched in his throat and Achilles stopped, making to withdraw, but Patroclus shook his head.

“Keep going. I’m okay.”

_It’s Achilles._

So Achilles kept going, pulling the chiton down around Patroclus’s legs and then tossing it smoothly to the side. Patroclus’s heart pounded; he knew Achilles could see his pulse in his throat.

Achilles leaned down, mouthing Patroclus’s neck, his hand resting on Patroclus’s side, holding him down with barely any pressure, letting Patroclus know that he would stop if he needed to, letting him know that he could leave if he wanted.

But Patroclus didn’t want to leave. He put his hand on Achilles’s, holding him to his body, telling himself over and over that it was Achilles kissing his throat, Achilles’s fingers on his skin, Achilles’s hips pressing against him. Deidameia was across the sea and she would never touch him again.

“Is this okay?” Achilles asked as his hand slipped further down to rest on Patroclus’s hips.

“Give me a moment,” Patroclus whispered. Achilles stopped, his hands stilling, his eyes on Patroclus’s face, waiting for him to tell him when to continue.

_It’s Achilles. It’s all Achilles, my Achilles. He will not do what Deidameia did._

“Yes,” he breathed, and Achilles’s strong hands were wrapped around him, stroking him, pleasuring him, pulling soft gasps and moans from his throat. “Achilles,” he gasped, his hips canting as pleasure shot through him. Achilles’s lips brushed against the pulse point in his neck and Patroclus tilted his head to the side, baring more of his neck for him. He felt Achilles’s grin against him as sharp teeth nipped his throat.

Then Achilles did something different with his hand and Patroclus cried out, a shudder running through him.

Achilles stopped and jerked backwards. “Patroclus?” he asked, sounding almost panicked. “Patroclus, I’m sorry, what –”

“ _Don’t stop_ ,” Patroclus practically shouted, writhing and reaching for Achilles’s hand to bring it back. “ _Fuck_ , Achilles, just get your fucking hands on me again –”

Achilles obeyed instantly, stroking and kissing until Patroclus was clawing at the lynx carpet and gasping for breath between his groans. He felt Achilles’s huff of laughter at his response against his skin, felt him press against him, felt his hardness against his thigh as he ground against him.

His hips arced upwards, his body shuddered, and he spilled in Achilles’s hand with a cry.

“Was that okay?” Achilles whispered when Patroclus collapsed back down.

Patroclus pulled him down to kiss him. “Yes,” he murmured. His hand moved to between Achilles’s thighs where he was still hard, grinning when Achilles gasped at his teasing touch. He shifted downwards so he was sitting between Achilles’s legs and pushed him onto his back; Achilles lay down obediently and Patroclus hitched his chiton up around his chest, exposing his hips and belly which quivered with his shuddering breaths.

Patroclus paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. _It’s Achilles._

“You don’t have to,” Achilles murmured, but Patroclus shook his head. It was Achilles, and Patroclus loved him, and he loved Patroclus, and it was alright. He was not Deidameia.

“I want to,” he said.

“Patroclus,” Achilles whispered, and Patroclus bent down and took him in his mouth.

Achilles’s head arched back and a hoarse cry escaped from between his lips. His knees fell apart to expose himself more to Patroclus’s touch and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Patroclus released him, feeling himself beginning to grow hard again. Achilles whined at the lack of touch, his hips canting towards him, begging for Patroclus’s touch on him again. Patroclus just grinned, planting kisses around the insides of Achilles’s thighs and on his lower belly, teasingly avoiding his length.

“Come _on_ , Patroclus,” Achilles whined, writhing, his muscles flexing under smooth golden skin.

Patroclus laughed softly. He kissed down Achilles’s belly, his hands reaching under him to grip his ass as he took him in his mouth again. He felt Achilles’s hands in his hair, holding him steady, and he heard Achilles’s breaths coming faster and harsher.

“Patroclus,” Achilles choked out. “Patroclus, I’m –”

Patroclus didn’t pull away. Achilles spilled in his mouth a moment later with a soft cry, and Patroclus swallowed the saltiness. He crawled back up to lay next to Achilles again, his face flushed, grinning.

“Okay?” Achilles whispered, his eyes still bright and his chest still heaving from the aftershocks still rocketing through him.

Patroclus ducked his head. “Yes.”

Achilles grinned at him and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad,” he murmured.

Patroclus pressed against him and Achilles cautiously put his arms around him, clasping his fingers behind Patroclus’s back. Patroclus sighed happily, touching Achilles’s cheek and looking deep into his eyes.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Achilles’s teeth flashed white as he smiled. He ducked his head forward to put his forehead against Patroclus’s and closed his eyes. “Forever,” he whispered.

Patroclus blushed. “We can…we can try to go further next time,” he said shyly. “It was okay this time. I was okay. And I think, with you, I’ll just get better.”

Achilles bit his lip, his green eyes glowing, catlike, and he brushed a strand of hair behind Patroclus’s hair, his fingertips lingering on his cheek. “I will love you forever,” he said seriously. “Until the end of time and beyond.”

The Gods knew he would live that long.

 

 

It was February now, and Patroclus went back to Opus. It had been three months since he had come back, and he had promised Polarius and Agapetos that he would visit. So he went to Opus, leaving Achilles at the edge of the forest and promising to be back before nightfall.

He walked through the walls for the first time in over eight years, keeping his head down lest someone recognize him, and made his way to the medical building.

He didn’t know what he felt as he walked through old haunts. There was some sadness, certainly, looking at the places he and Briseis had hidden, eating fruits that she’d stolen from the marketplace carts, him reluctantly, her triumphantly, or looking at the castle where his mother no longer stood by the window or even lay in her bed. But there was still happiness, listening to the familiar sounds of horses neighing and children laughing, of youth and happiness and hope.

Patroclus shook his head hard. He was at the medical building now, and he didn’t want to think about things that were gone now.

He pushed open the familiar doors to the building, surprised to find that they still felt the same as they had eight years ago. Still rusty on the hinges, still heavy and dark with a patch of discoloration where they were touched the most when they were being pushed open.

“Excuse me,” he said quietly to a young healer he didn’t recognize about to enter one of the rooms. “Could you tell me where I could find Polarius or Agapetos?”

The healer looked at him up and down and then frowned quizzically. “Are you injured or ill?”

“Um. No.”

“Here to visit someone? Here one someone else’s behalf?”

“Uh, no, I’m just here to see Polarius or Agapetos.”

The healer shook her head again. “I’m sorry, we can’t let you in unless you need medical assistance or are visiting a friend or family member.”

Patroclus bit his lip, shifting his weight in frustration. “Well, can you tell them that an old friend is here to see them? Tell them it’s someone who promised to come three months ago but was caught up, but he’s here now.”

The healer hesitated. “Polarius is busy with a patient right now. I am not quite sure about Agapetos, but I will check for you.”

Patroclus grinned. “Thank you.”

The healer nodded. “Stay here.” She walked down the hall to the right and poked her head into a door at the end; Patroclus caught a glimpse inside from behind her.

Agapetos was talking to a young man with a bandage wrapped around his torso, a small spot of blood welling in his side; for a moment, Patroclus’s mind flashed back to when he was sixteen and a foolish but brave twelve-year-old boy named Chileus was being brought in after challenging Opus’s top warrior to a fight. And then Agapetos was looking up, his eyes meeting Patroclus and widening in shock, joy, and astonishment. Patroclus saw him say something to the other healer, and then Agapetos was sprinting down the hall into Patroclus’s arms.

Patroclus laughed and squeezed his friend tight in a hug before pulling back to look at him.

“You look happier,” Agapetos said, his voice as musical as ever.

Patroclus grinned. “Yes. And you,” he said, looking Agapetos up and down. “You look better. Healthier. I’m guessing they feed you better here, huh? Are you used to it? Do you like it?”

Agapetos laughed and kissed his cheek, not caring who saw. “Yes, Patroclus, yes. It’s wonderful, and Polarius is wonderful.” He laughed again. “I’ve missed you.”

“And you,” Patroclus said. He glanced back over Agapetos’s shoulder at the room he had emerged from. “Are you busy right now? You looked busy.”

Agapetos shook his head. “No, I asked Eirene to take care of him. I was just finishing up, anyway.” His smile widened. “Come, Patroclus. Polarius is going to be busy the rest of the day with some injuries from the lower city; someone tried to steal from one of the farmers and got pretty badly cut up when the farmer caught him and retaliated. We have the whole day.”

Patroclus walked with him to the back of the building, where there was a small private garden for use by the patients. They sat on the top of the wall surrounding it and overlooking the city.

“I have questions,” Agapetos said, turning to him. The sunlight caught his face and turned his skin the color of dark honey. “I…I asked Polarius about Briseis,” he said quietly. “That’s who it was, wasn’t it? You never said her name, but I could tell there was someone here who was important to you. Someone…other than the man you were returning to.”

Patroclus turned away. “Yes,” he murmured. “Her name was Briseis.”

“Was?” Agapetos asked.

“She died, eight years ago,” Patroclus said. “My father…the court sentenced her to death for a crime she didn’t commit.” He shook his head, forcing a smile. “But I don’t want to talk about that. If you want to know about her, you should know about her before all that, the way she would’ve wanted to be remembered.”

So he told Agapetos about her. He talked about her always shoulder-length brown hair and that one strand that she could never keep in place and how it smelled different every day, depending on what she had done. Sometimes in the summer, when she’d been to the marketplace, it smelled like fruit. Sometimes when she went to the forest, it smelled like pine needles and sweet tree sap. It was like the air clung to her.

Then he talked about the way she laughed, so carefree and innocent, even childish in its naivety. She would toss her head back, her hair shaking free over her shoulders, her eyes crinkling with joy and her teeth flashing white. He’d known, even when they were children, that she could have been eighty and still look young when she laughed. There was a youthful vibrancy to her that never left.

He talked about their childhood, about their adolescence when she had her first blood and his voice had started to do funny things and they both grew, first she faster than him, then he faster than her. He talked about the wonderful friend he had lost.

Patroclus turned to Agapetos. “You remind me of her, a bit,” he murmured. “Of course, you are different in every way, but…your basic nature. Your souls. They are the same.”

Agapetos flushed and bowed his head. “Something tells me that is one of the greatest compliments you have ever given.”

Patroclus snorted. “Honestly, it’s probably one of the _only_ compliments I’ve ever given.”

Agapetos laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He glanced at Patroclus. “What about…him?”

Achilles. Patroclus couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his face. “He’s wonderful,” he said. “As ever. As always.”

“He makes you happy?”

“Yes.”

Agapetos hesitated. “Does he know?” he asked quietly. “About…about Skyros. About Deidameia and what she did to you, and…about us.”

Patroclus shook his head, swallowing hard. _There is no us. There never was._ “Thinking about it is still…not easy for me. I know it’s been a long time, but what she did…she made me feel things that I don’t ever want to feel again, and I try not to think about it. I haven’t talked about it. He knows something happened, of course, but other than that…”

“Will you tell him?”

Patroclus hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. “When I’m ready, I will tell him.”

 

 

He was ready, one night in May. They were by the lake again, sitting on the ledge on which Achilles had first taught him how to fish, dangling their feet in the water and kicking up small sprays of water, silver in the moonlight. Achilles’s arm was slung casually around Patroclus’s shoulders and his free hand was clasping Patroclus’s, their fingers tangled together. Achilles’s small bag lay off to the side.

“Achilles, I…I want to tell you about Skyros,” Patroclus said.

Achilles stilled. “Skyros?” he echoed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Patroclus said. “I want to. I’m ready.”

Achilles removed his arm from around Patroclus’s shoulders and turned to face him, sitting cross-legged and looking deep into his eyes. He kept his other hand in Patroclus’s, giving it a comforting squeeze.

Patroclus took a deep breath. “You know I was sent there to marry Deidameia,” he said. “And you know it was to ensure a truce between Skyros and Opus. Well, it was. But the other part of it, which I didn’t know but looking back probably should have expected, was that it was to give her a child.”

He felt Achilles tense.

“So I…I’m a father,” he continued quietly. He took another deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady as memories of Deidameia shot through him again. “I have two sons. Antigonos and Damokles. Antigonos is the king now since Lycomedes is dead, and he was the one who let me come back. But in order for him to be born…”

“You slept with her,” Achilles whispered.

Patroclus flinched. “I – yes, I did, but it wasn’t by choice, it wasn’t –”

“No,” Achilles said forcefully. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m not angry at you, I know that she…she…”

“She forced me,” Patroclus interrupted, and his voice shook despite his best attempts. “She told me that if I didn’t, she’d tell her father and the truce would be off, and I couldn’t…I couldn’t condemn my people to war. I had to.” His breath hitched in his throat and he broke off for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt Achilles’s hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting, grounding him.

“Patroclus,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I understand.”

“No.” Patroclus shook his head. “I have to. I have to talk about it, have to get it out.” He inhaled sharply and put his hand on the one Achilles had on his shoulder. “It was…terrible. Humiliating, degrading…she treated me like a slave. Like an animal. She could do anything she wanted to, and she knew it, so she…” He broke off, closing his eyes.

_“Yes, Patroclus, touch me.”_

_Her hands on him in places he didn’t want to be touched._

_Gripping his hips._

_Kissing him._

_Suffocating._

“Patroclus!”

Patroclus jerked his eyes open, his heart pounding. Achilles was staring at him in concern.

“Patroclus,” he repeated. “Patroclus, you’re alright. I’m here. You’re with me, not with her. You’re not on Skyros anymore.”

Slowly, Patroclus felt his heart rate return to normal. His hands were shaking, and he clenched them to still them. He took a shuddering breath and nodded. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “Well, she forced me to…to take her. Multiple times, until she was pregnant, and then even afterwards, even when I told her to stop, since I’d already given her what she wanted.” He shook his head, staring at Achilles’s gold to get rid of the memory of pale white thighs and bluish veins in porcelain skin. “And I kept asking myself, over and over again, what I did wrong, what I did to deserve this.”

“You did nothing wrong,” Achilles said gently, and only by looking at his eyes did Patroclus see how much anger at Deidameia he was holding back.

Patroclus shook his head. “Maybe not, but the things she made me do still stay with me. The way she made me feel…I don’t know if it’ll ever go away. And I _wanted_ it to go away, Achilles, I wanted so badly to be rid of her and all the guilt and shame and disgust I felt every time she forced me that I…I…”

Achilles touched his cheek gently. “That you what, Patroclus?”

Patroclus turned away, unable to meet his eyes, flushed with shame. “I…I slept with someone else,” he whispered.

Achilles drew back and was silent for a long moment.

“Achilles, I’m sorry,” Patroclus said, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, and I felt like I was betraying you every time it happened, but what Deidameia did…I didn’t know how else to get rid of the feeling of dirtiness every time, and he was the only one there who I felt safe with, and even though he was nothing like you he was better than Deidameia and better than nothing, so I slept with him, because he was actually _kind_ to me, the only person on Skyros who was, so I slept with him to try and feel human again instead of…like an animal. Going to him afterwards was the only way I could _stop_ feeling like just an animal being used, the only way I was able to stop myself from just giving up on everything, even though I knew I was betraying you, even though I knew I was just using him since I didn’t even love him and even though I knew it was wrong, and then now…now, with you –” He broke off again, biting down a sob.

“I had to think of you,” he whispered. “She wanted me to…to take her, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t get up, since…” He trailed off and took another deep breath, trying to calm the panicked memories from returning, before talking again. “So I had to find a way, otherwise she’d break off the truce, so I had to pretend it was you. And then, I don’t know, I began to associate you with her, so that last time, when you were…” He bit his lip. “When you were touching me, I thought of her, and I…I panicked.”

Achilles was still silent. Patroclus ventured a glance upwards, and saw that his eyes were dark with anger.

Patroclus flinched. “Achilles, I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I didn’t mean to, and I understand if you’re angry with me and if you never want to see me again –”

“I’ll kill her,” Achilles snarled, and suddenly he ripped himself away from Patrocclus; his spear was in his hand and he was pacing, his face stone cold with rage in a way Patroclus had never seen before, thunderstorms brewing in his green, green eyes. “I’ll find her and strip her flesh from her bones, make her feel as helpless as you did, make her experience the same _pain_ as you did, until she’s on her knees begging for death.”

Patroclus’s eyes widened. “Achilles, no – please, Achilles, stop, you can’t –”

Achilles whipped around, his eyes flashing. Predatory. A killer. “She doesn’t deserve to live,” he hissed. “Not after what she did to you.”

“No,” Patroclus said, standing and putting his hands on Achilles’s shoulders, holding him still. He felt the deep, harsh breaths, felt the tremors of rage that shook his body. “No, Achilles. She’s across the ocean. It’s –” He broke off and took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s over,” he said forcefully, as much to convince Achilles as to convince himself. “She can’t hurt me anymore.”

“You said yourself you didn’t know if the memories would ever leave you,” Achilles spat.

“And those memories aren’t just going to leave me if she’s dead,” Patroclus whispered. “Besides, I did this to prevent war between Opus and Skyros, and if you were to kill her, there would be war, and it would all be for nothing.”

Achilles fell silent.

“Achilles?” Patroclus asked softly, tentatively.

He turned his bright green gaze on Patroclus. “I hate her for what she did to you,” he said quietly, and his voice was laced with anger. “But I’ll do as you wish.”

Patroclus let out a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“I would’ve crossed the ocean for you,” he said quietly.

Patroclus touched his cheek gently, relieved when he did not draw away, as he knew he had every right to do after what Patroclus had done with Agapetos. “I know.”

Achilles took a deep breath, and then lowered his spear.

“Are you…are you angry with me?” Patroclus asked softly.

Achilles looked confused. “Angry with you? What for?”

Patroclus bit his lip and looked down, and his voice was small when he answered. “For…for sleeping with someone else. Even though I promised you that I would be yours forever.”

There was a silence, during which Patroclus didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare face the anger that he knew would be simmering in his eyes, didn’t dare watch him as he turned around and walked away.

But then Achilles laughed.

Patroclus looked up at him, frowning in confusion. “Achilles, what –”

Achilles took his face in his hands and kissed him. “No, Patroclus, I’m not angry with you,” he murmured tenderly. “How could I ever be, even if you really had done something wrong? No, you did what was necessary for you. You needed someone to be there for you after Deidameia, and I wasn’t there, so you went to a friend, and you did what you needed to get you through it, to cope with it. It was survival, Patroclus, and believe me, I understand what it takes to survive sometimes. And besides, you weren’t betraying me. You thought you would never see me again, so you couldn’t betray me even if you wanted to.” He kissed him again, gently, just brushing their lips together. “Now come here, Patroclus, and let me make it better.”

Patroclus put his arms around him and held him close, pressing his body tightly to Achilles’s. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Achilles pulled him gently back to the ground. “Just tell me what you need me to do,” he murmured.

Patroclus bit his lip. “Are…are you sure you’re not angry?”

“Patroclus,” Achilles sighed, rolling his eyes.

Patroclus blushed and ducked his head.

“I want to help you,” Achilles said sincerely. “I love you, Patroclus, and I _promise_ , I am not angry with you for anything. I promise. I’m just angry that I couldn’t be the one to help you when you needed it.”

“But I…I betrayed you,” Patroclus murmured.

“To _live_ ,” Achilles said fiercely. “You did it to live. Believe me, Patroclus, I would have been angrier if you didn’t and something happened to you because you couldn’t cope.” Now it was his turn to look down. “Patroclus…if I were to have been in the same position, forced to…to do things like that which I didn’t want to do and thinking I would never see you again…I would have done the same thing.”

Patroclus bit his lip again, looking up at Achilles, a small smile spreading over his face. “Then…if you’re not angry with me…can we…can we try again?”

Achilles tilted his head, his eyes glinting as the moonlight hit them. “Try what?”

Patroclus cupped Achilles’s cheek gently and then leaned forward to kiss him. “This,” he whispered. “I want to try again.”

“Oh.” Achilles sounded a little breathless. “Oh. Yes. Yes, we can definitely try again.”

Patroclus huffed a laugh, putting a hand on Achilles’s muscled chest and pushing him down onto his back before clambering forward and straddling him across his hips. He rolled his own hips against Achilles’s teasingly, letting their crotches rub together, grinning when Achilles’s breath hitched.

“Do you…do you like it…the way we were before?” he asked hesitantly. He blushed and ducked his head. “I mean, like…rough.”

“Like we’ve always done it,” Achilles said. “Rough and harsh. I want you to tell me what to do.”

Patroclus laughed softly. “Alright. Like always, then.”

He leaned down and kissed him, taking his lower lip in his and tugging it, his hands roaming over Achilles’s body, slipping his chiton from his shoulders and sliding it out from under him. Once it was off and Achilles lay naked before him, Patroclus sat back for a moment, taking in his god-like beauty, his heart pounding as he saw Achilles’s muscles flexing with every movement, saw Achilles already hard.

Patroclus slipped his own chiton from his shoulders, going agonizingly slowly, even for him, grinning as Achilles growled in frustration.

“Shhh,” he murmured, holding Achilles’s hands down as he brought them up to touch himself. “No touching. That’s my job.”

“Then hurry up,” Achilles snapped, his pupils dilated and his cheeks flushed.

Patroclus laughed softly, letting the chiton fall, still not touching him.

“Patroclus,” Achilles whined, shifting his hips, trying to get the friction he so desperately needed. “Patroclus, _please_ …”

_It’s Achilles._

Patroclus shook his head with a sly grin, his fingers brushing teasingly over erect nipples and dancing down his sides. Achilles writhed, his back arching up for more touch, and Patroclus leaned down to plant a kiss over his collarbone before licking up his neck and sucking a bruise there. His took his own length in his hand and stroked it a few times, grinning slyly at Achilles as he teased him with his lack of touch.

Achilles whined again.

“Oh, shush,” Patroclus murmured with a smile, both his hands on Achilles’s body now, rubbing down his chest, his sides, his stomach, his fingers splayed over his navel, pressing down to hold Achilles still as his hips thrust involuntarily upwards.

“Not yet,” Patroclus said quietly, his breath hot against Achilles’s neck. He pressed his lips against his jugular, where his blood ran fast and hot, where his life was preserved by just a thin layer of skin. He bit down gently, enough to feel the blood rushing over his tongue, and pressed his body down on top of Achilles.

Achilles gasped and bucked his hips upwards. Patroclus laughed, releasing him only to suck another bruise on his chest, nipping at the sensitive skin below his collarbone and then moving down his body, kissing and nipping at the skin of his ribs. Red marks formed; they would still be there in the morning. Red marks on golden skin, not white, on Achilles’s body, not Deidameia’s.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Achilles hissed, his back arching as Patroclus kissed down the light trail of golden hairs leading down his stomach to his groin. “Just fucking _take_ me, Patroclus!”

Patroclus planted a kiss on the inside of Achilles’s thighs, his hands rubbing Achilles’s hips and reaching behind to squeeze his ass; Achilles’s body jerked upwards involuntarily as Patroclus licked a stripe up his length.

“Don’t move,” Patroclus murmured, pressing down on his lower belly to hold him still. “I tell you when you can move.” He leaned down and bit the sensitive skin just behind Achilles’s jaw, just under his ear. “If you’re good, I’ll fuck you,” he whispered.

Achilles whined, but stayed still obediently.

Patroclus grinned. “Do you have lubricant?”

“In…in the bag.”

Patroclus pulled the bag over and pulled out the lubricant, taking a deep breath before he spread some onto the fingers of his right hand and stroked his own length to coat his cock.

“Is this…are you okay?” Achilles gasped out.

Patroclus took in a shuddering breath. “Yes,” he whispered, and leaned down to kiss him, touched that Achilles thought to ask him, right before he was about to fuck him into oblivion. “Yes, I’m okay. It’s you.” He took another deep breath and slipped his finger between Achilles’s cheeks, teasing at the taught skin between his balls and hole. Achilles let out a moan as Patroclus rubbed at his entrance, just touching, just teasing.

He eased the tip of his finger in, grinning as Achilles cried out and spread his legs wider, his head turned to the side to better expose the flushed skin of his neck.

“You’re so tight,” he whispered, adding another finger and let out a soft laugh as Achilles’s body jerked at the intrusion. “Did you fuck yourself when I was away? Did you fuck yourself with your fingers, thinking of me?”

Achilles let out a cry as Patroclus added a third finger, angling them so they hit that sweet, sweet spot deep inside him. He writhed despite his best efforts as Patroclus scissored his fingers, stretching him out, preparing him. “Well, I’m here now,” he whispered. “And I’ll fuck you until you’re numb, until you’re screaming my name.”

He withdrew his fingers without warning, leaving Achilles gasping and shuddering at the sudden emptiness, as he positioned the tip of his cock against his entrance.

He took a deep breath.

_It’s Achilles._

He pushed in at the same angle as his fingers were so the tip of his cock hit just right, and Achilles very nearly sobbed, his body jerking and his chest heaving, his cock leaking and muscles standing out over his body as he strained to prevent himself from touching himself.

Patroclus leaned down, pressing his body flush against Achilles’s, closing his eyes and taking a moment to prepare himself, to remind himself that it was Achilles he was taking. His lover, his god.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, just fucking _move_ ,” Achilles groaned.

Patroclus grinned, pulling almost all the way out, pausing for a moment, and then snapping his hips forward and driving back in. Achilles let out a cry, and Patroclus bit down into his shoulder, his hands like a vice on Achilles’s hips, leaving bruises, as he thrust into him again and again. Achilles cried out with every thrust, his body shaking, and Patroclus gripped his length and stroked it in time with his thrusts.

“Patroclus,” Achilles gasped out. “Patroclus, I’m close –”

Patroclus slowed down and took his hand off of Achilles’s cock; Achilles whined and canted his hips, looking for friction that Patroclus denied him.

“Patroclus,” he whimpered. “Please, Patroclus…”

“Not yet,” Patroclus murmured, even though there was heat coiling in his own belly, waiting to be released, begging to be released. He mouthed along Achilles’s jaw, his thrusts slowing to laziness, only occasionally reaching down and giving Achilles’s length a stroke. He felt Achilles clench around him and his entire body tensed, his breath leaving him sharply.

“Please,” Achilles begged.

Patroclus kissed his mouth, feeling Achilles’s lips part to accommodate him, and he pushed his tongue inside, tasting, exploring. He took Achilles in his hand again and stroked, rubbing his thumb over the head, and Achilles let out a high keening.

“Patroclus,” he gasped, and Patroclus felt his breaths quicken, felt his muscles tense, and a moment later he came in Patroclus’s hand with a broken cry. He clenched again around Patroclus, and Patroclus felt the heat building, felt his orgasm coming, and he spilled his seed into Achilles.

He collapsed on top of him, still thrusting slowly, milking out the last few drops of his seed before he withdrew.

“Are you okay?” Achilles whispered, touching Patroclus’s cheek gently, his expression tired, sated, but still concerned, until Patroclus said he was alright.

“Yes,” Patroclus murmured with a smile, putting his hand on Achilles’s and shifting so he was spread on top of Achilles, trying to touch him as much as possible. He kissed his face, planting kisses on his eyelids, his cheekbones, his nose, and finally his lips. “Yes, I’m…I’m perfect.” He grinned and kissed Achilles again, before rolling off of him to lay on his back beside him.

Achilles turned onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. His eyes were soft, and there was a small smile that curved the corners of his lips. “I’m glad,” he said quietly. He leaned over Patroclus to get his chiton. “We need to head back to the cave now. We can’t spend the night out here.”

Patroclus sighed and rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. “Tired,” he mumbled. “Don’t want to move.”

Achilles laughed, wrapping his hands around Patroclus’s chest and lifting him up. “I’ll carry you back,” he offered with an only slightly mocking grin.

Patroclus snorted and pushed him off, standing up and putting on his chiton. “Thanks, but _I’m_ the prince here. I’m supposed to be rescuing you.”

“We’re both princes,” Achilles said, also slipping on his own chiton. “Both princes, both away from our homes. I’d say we save each other.” He gave him a cheeky grin and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Now let’s get back to the cave.”

They slept soundly through the night, curled around each other in the cool night air, their limbs tangled together and pressed so tightly to each other that it was hard to tell where Patroclus ended and Achilles began. Patroclus slept, his lungs filled with Achilles’s sandalwood and pomegranate and little hint of almond, and forgot about Deidameia.

 

 

Patroclus woke when the sun was already high in the sky. He blinked sleep from his eyes and turned to see that Achilles was still beside him, and, astonishingly, still asleep.

It was rare, that Patroclus woke before Achilles.

Patroclus carefully disentangled himself and eased himself out from under the sheets, padding quietly over to the ring of stones and starting a small fire. He descended from the cave and went to the fig tree, picking enough for both him and Achilles to have for breakfast. He also picked some leaves and brought everything back to the cave, setting the figs in a bowl and smoking the fig tree leaves to be wrapped around strips of meat.

Achilles woke while he was finishing the smoking, yawning widely and stretching, muscles pulling under golden skin.

It was nice, really, that Patroclus didn’t have to hide his staring.

They ate and then descended from the cave. There wasn’t much to do; they weren’t short of food, the stream was nearby for when they needed water, and it was warm enough that they didn’t have to worry about protecting themselves from the cold.

And then, suddenly, Achilles tensed.

Patroclus turned to look at him questioningly, not saying a word; he knew by now that even if he didn’t sense anything, Achilles did, and in those cases, silence was best.

Achilles lifted his spear, his head swiveling towards deeper in the forest.

Still, Patroclus did not see anything.

But then he heard it.

In the silence of the forest, he picked up the sound of something moving in the underbrush. Skilled, certainly, but not as skilled as they. Achilles had had two thousand years to learn better.

Patroclus shifted closer to Achilles and lifted his spear in front of him; his elbow brushed against Achilles’s forearm and he felt it tense. When he glanced at him, he saw green eyes focused on one spot, bright and alert.

A moment later, a man stepped out from the trees.

Patroclus’s eyes widened and a soft gasp escaped him, even as he heard a soft snarl come from Achilles beside him.

The face was aged and there was no cloak, but there was no mistaking who it was.

“Paris,” Achilles hissed.

Paris raised an eyebrow; behind him, Hector and Agamemnon emerged from the underbrush. “He speaks,” Paris said, casually, lazily. “And his little friend is still with him. Patroclus, was it?”

Patroclus spat.

Paris just laughed. “Oh, yes, we’re still after the same thing.” He frowned and pointed at his face. “Don’t you see? I’m _aging_. Quite terrible, really, though of course Achilles would know nothing about it. Now, Achilles, if you would gladly give us some of your blood, we’ll leave you and your friend alone. Otherwise, we’ll have to take it by force.”

Achilles bared his teeth, his stance shifting. Protective. Defensive. His forearm, still pressed against Patroclus's elbow, gave a slight nudge.

_Run._

But Patroclus couldn't. He knew Achilles could kill them all, but he couldn't leave. He couldn't leave him alone.

Paris tutted. “Well, you see, we would have come back earlier if we thought we stood a chance. We _do_ know he’s the best warrior the world has ever seen, and from what he did to poor Menelaus last time…” He trailed off, smiling mockingly. “So we waited. Bided our time, until we _knew_ we had a way to kill him. And then we came back.”

His smile wasn’t mocking now; it was wicked. He drew his sword, and that was the signal.

They charged.

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We do crazy things for crazy reasons. Is love a reason crazy enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some violence in this chapter as well, but it's more action than gore. And again - angst with a happy ending! Please forgive me Dx

 

 

Paris leapt forward at Achilles, engaging him before Agamemnon rushed at Patroclus. He brought his spear up just in time to block the sword Agamemnon sent rushing towards his face, ducking out of the way and spinning to try and drive the spear into Agamemnon from behind. The other man dodged it and slashed at Patroclus’s side; he dropped to the ground to avoid it and rolled out of the way of Agamemnon’s subsequent downwards strike before springing back to his feet, his heart pounding and his blood rushing in his ears.

Achilles had the upper hand against Paris as Patroclus knew he would; Paris was just barely able to avoid the deadly point of his spear, ducking to the side as Achilles struck forward and then leaping up as Achilles aimed for his shins.

But out of the corner of his eye, Patroclus saw Hector putting his hands together in front of his chest and murmuring something. Light crackled around his palms; it must have been a spell.

“Achilles!” Patroclus yelled, ducking the sword swung at his throat. “Achilles, Hector!”

Achilles glanced at the other man, dodging Paris’s strike and starting towards the spellcaster, but Paris leapt forwards, lashing out at Achilles’s legs. Achilles leapt over the spear and drove his own spear backwards at Paris, who ducked out of the way and lashed out again with his own spear.

Patroclus launched himself at Agamemnon with a cry, drawing his arm back before sending the tip of his spear surging forwards at Agamemnon’s chest. Agamemnon slid to the side and drove his spear at Patroclus’s ribs; Patroclus sidestepped to avoid it, but stumbled, off-balance for just one brief moment.

Agamemnon saw his chance. He lashed out, forcing Patroclus to stumble backwards.

“Patroclus!” Achilles yelled. He twisted and threw the spear at Agamemnon, who had his sword raised, ready to slash into Patroclus’s chest.

Agamemnon leapt to the side just in time and the spear sailed past him, impaling itself in a tree behind him. Achilles reached for his sword hanging at his side, but for the briefest of moments, he was exposed, and Hector saw his chance.

Hector thrust his hands out in front of him, and a burst of white light illuminated the clearing.

The light struck Achilles, and Patroclus screamed, expected him to be thrown backwards or for a gaping wound to appear or _something_ , but nothing happened. They all stood stock still, as if frozen in time, except for Paris.

He leapt towards Achilles, who was just a second too slow to react, and when he brought his sword up to block Paris’s spear it slipped, and the tip of the spear sliced into Achilles’s forearm.

Patroclus gasped as red blood began flowing freely. Agamemnon swung his sword and Patroclus ducked out of the way, desperate to get to Achilles, because whatever Hector had done was slowing him down, dulling his reflexes, sapping his strength. Achilles had never bled before. He had never been hurt.

Agamemnon slashed his sword downwards and Patroclus leapt to the side to avoid it, lashing out with his spear and trying to cripple the other warrior, but Agamemnon stepped to the side and Patroclus’s spear swung through the air harmlessly.

But Achilles had taught him well, and Patroclus had expected that to happen. He swept his spear upwards even as the other man leapt out of the way, slashing through the front of Agamemnon’s thigh. The larger man let out a roar of pain and staggered, crippled, and Patroclus stabbed with his spear, striking Agamemnon in his chest.

Agamemnon stumbled, his mouth open in shock, and he sank to his knees.

Patroclus wrenched his spear out of him and turned to Achilles in time to see Paris launching himself forward again with his spear held high; Achilles danced out of the way, but his strength, which had always been endless, was failing. Paris leapt forward and lashed out with his spear, knocking the sword out of his hand, and Achilles stumbled.

It was the first time Patroclus had seen his feet fail him.

Paris drove the spear forward and Achilles leapt backwards, just barely dodging the point. Paris darted forward and cornered him against the trunk of a tree, giving him nowhere to run, and then he struck.

“Achilles!” Patroclus screamed, as the point of the spear swept forward. Achilles just barely managed to stop it, catching it and gripping the shaft between his hands, his face twisted in effort.

Patroclus started forward, but Hector sent another burst of light towards him, too fast for him to dodge, immobilizing him.

“No!” he cried, struggling, but he couldn’t move. Achilles’s gaze flashed towards him, full of fear. The shaft slipped forwards in his hand; Paris was leaning his full weight on the end of the spear, and Achilles just had the strength of his arms to stop him. Blood flowed freely from the wound on his arm and had already covered his hands, making the grip slick. Achilles’s mouth curled in a snarl.

Then, quick as a snake, Achilles darted to the side, thrusting the spear away from him. It cut deep into his side but glanced off of his ribs, and Achilles stumbled, the force of the strike having thrown him off balance. Paris recovered quickly; he staggered forward but caught himself and spun where he stood, leaping forward and knocking Achilles to the ground.

Patroclus’s breath left him in a sob.

Achilles landed heavily on his side, blood pouring from the wounds on his side and forearm. Paris stepped forward and kicked him onto his back, stabbing downwards with his spear. Achilles rolled out of the way and the spear grazed his thigh instead of impaling it as he scrambled towards his own spear, but Paris kicked at him, knocking him backwards.

Paris was winning.

He would get what he wanted.

Achilles would die.

“Achilles, run,” Patroclus begged. “Just run, get out of here!”

Paris’s glance flickered towards where Patroclus was still held motionless, and a sly smile spread over his face.

“Don’t touch him,” Achilles snarled.

“Oh, and who’s going to stop me?” Paris asked, smirking. He stalked towards Patroclus and circled him, stopping when he was about ten feet in front of him. He drew back his arm, his smile widening, and then threw the spear, at the same time Achilles leapt forward.

He caught the spear a foot from Patroclus’s chest and spun, driving towards Paris, rage lending him speed and strength even as the spell sapped it from him. Paris darted out of the way and scrambled towards Achilles’s sword where it had been knocked out of his hand, picking it up just in time to knock Achilles’s strike to the side. Paris was at a disadvantage now; he had the shorter weapon, and Achilles was more than proficient with a spear.

But Hector was already moving, running into the forest and wrenching Achilles’s spear out of the tree it was still impaled in, tossing it towards Paris.

Paris caught it without even looking and circled Achilles, his eyes gleaming in triumph.

“You will not touch him,” Achilles hissed.

Paris leapt forward, striking with his sword and then spinning and lashing out with his spear with lightning speed. Achilles darted out of the way and knocked the oncoming blades out of the way with his spear, but he was being driven backwards with the sheer speed and ferocity with which Paris attacked, and then Paris struck with his spear a second earlier, one spin earlier, at the same time as he sword, and Paris’s sword knocked Achilles’s spear out of his hands, and Paris’s spear drove itself deep into his stomach.

Patroclus screamed.

Achilles staggered backwards, his expression stunned, and slowly, he looked down at the shaft sticking out from his body, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Paris wore a look of disbelief and triumph as he picked up Achilles’s discarded spear, panting as he straightened back up. “Now,” he murmured. “Now I will kill Patroclus.”

Achilles was still frozen.

Paris walked forward, swinging his sword casually in his hand, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, he’s just so helpless, isn’t he?” he said quietly. “Just standing there, unable to move…he was hit with the same spell you were, Achilles, don’t you know that? But you could still fight. You could still move. But Patroclus…he’s just helpless.” He took another step forward. “A _weakling_ ,” he hissed.

Paris took another step forward and smirked. “Well, I suppose you would know that by now. Honestly, I don’t know why you stick with him, you’re worth _so_ much more. So now I’ll gut him and string him up like a wild pig and slowly, delicately, carve his body to pieces…” His grin widened maliciously.

And then, just as he drew back his sword hand to run Patroclus through with it, the point of a spear emerged from his chest.

Patroclus’s eyes widened in shock.

Achilles stood behind Paris, hunched over in pain, one hand pressed to his body and the other gripping the shaft of the spear he had wrenched from it. His lips were curled in a snarl and he pulled the spear from Paris’s body; Paris sank to the ground, his eyes stunned, already dead.

Hector turned and ran, and Patroclus could move again.

“Achilles,” he cried, running forward and catching him in his arms as he began to fall. Achilles’s hand gripped his shoulder tightly, his nails digging into Patroclus’s skin, his breath harsh and uneven with pain.

“Oh Gods,” Patroclus whispered, gently laying Achilles down on his back. His left hand was still clutching at his stomach as if it would hold himself together and his right was on Patroclus’s arm, gripping it like a vice. His eyes were wide with shock and unfocused

“Achilles, you need to relax,” Patroclus said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I need to be able to take a look at this.”

“It’s not going to heal.”

Patroclus spun around; Agamemnon had spoken. He lay on the ground, bleeding out from the wound that had just missed his heart. There was no way that he was going to survive for long, but he was still alive for the moment.

Patroclus ran to him, whipping his knife from its sheath and holding the blade to his throat. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

Agamemnon laughed, blood bubbling in his throat. “It’s…a spell,” he managed. “Hector spent eight years…trying to perfect it. Supposed to…to paralyze you…stop you moving. That didn’t work as well…as we hoped. But the other part did. Achilles…was injured…before Hector ended…the spell. The injury is still affected. It’ll…never heal.”

“Then how do I fix it? Tell me,” Patroclus snarled, pressing the blade harder against his throat.

“Why should I…tell you?”

“Because they left you,” Patroclus hissed. “Eight years ago, they left you behind when they ran away. They would have left you for dead, and this is your chance to get back at Hector, because I’m going to help Achilles, and then I’m going to go after him, and I’m going to kill him. Now tell me, how do I break the spell?”

A bloody smile spread across Agamemnon’s face. “You make a…good point.” He laughed. “Very…well. Kill him, and…and the spell is…broken. He recovers immediately.”

Patroclus drew back. “Is that the truth?”

Agamemnon laughed again, and then coughed, spitting up blood. “No reason…for me to lie. Will die anyways.” He coughed again and closed his eyes.

He was right. There was no helping him. Patroclus turned and rushed back to Achilles, kneeling down by his side. Achilles’s muscles were tensed in agony, his breathing too fast, too shallow; his eyes were glassy and wandering, unfocused, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He was already beginning to convulse.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said, his voice shaking. He held Achilles down as best he could, praying that the convulsions would end soon; he was still losing blood, but there was nothing he could do until Achilles stilled.

The convulsions stopped a minute later and Achilles lay on the ground, his arms wrapped around himself, his chest heaving.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said again, pushing his fear to the back of his mind and forcing himself to be the healer Achilles needed. “Achilles, you need to relax and let me see it. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to help you.”

“Can’t heal,” Achilles gasped out, his body seizing in pain.

Patroclus shook his head. “Don’t underestimate me, Achilles,” he said, huffing a laugh. “I need to get you stabilized; stop the bleeding, prevent infection. You’ll be fine.” _You’ll be fine. I promise. And this is one promise I will not break, even if it means leaving you and going after Hector to save you._

Achilles bit down on a cry, his body twisting.

Patroclus put a hand on the one Achilles had clutched to himself. “You need to let me see it,” he said gently. “I know it hurts, but I can’t do anything if I can’t see it first.”

Slowly, Achilles moved his arms, blinking tears of pain from the corner of his eyes.

“That’s good,” Patroclus said encouragingly. “Now you need to stay still, alright? Stay still and stay calm. You’ll be okay.”

Achilles’s chest heaved with effort and his fists clenched at his sides. Patroclus peeled his blood-soaked chiton away from the wound, wincing as he saw it. It was deep and jagged; Achilles had wrenched the spear out from his body to stab Paris with it, and it had torn up his insides on the way out. It was bleeding freely and his organs glistened in the light.

“Is it…is it bad?” Achilles whispered.

Patroclus bit his lip and shook his head. “No. No, you’ll live. I’ll make sure of it.” _I’m going to kill Hector._ He glanced around, looking for something he could use to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing. Nothing except the chitons they were wearing, but they were dusty and would only increase the risk of infection. He would have to go up to the cave.

“Stay here, okay? I have to go get supplies; I’ll be back in a minute. I promise. Just – just hold on, you’re going to be okay.”

Achilles didn’t respond. He was paling rapidly with blood loss, and Patroclus was afraid he was going to go into shock. He kissed him quickly and then darted up towards the cave, scrambling up as fast as he could and grabbing the bag of medicinal supplies as well as a bowl before running back out to Achilles.

Achilles turned his head to watch him as he approached, his eyes bright with pain and fear.

“I’m going to have to stop the bleeding,” Patroclus said. He pulled clean cloths out from the bag and wadded them up before pressing them to the wound. He pressed Achilles’s hands to it. “Hold it down and apply pressure,” he instructed. “I’m going to get fresh water so I can wash it; I’ll be right back.”

He took the bowl and went to the stream nearby, filling it and bringing it back to where Achilles lay before he ran back up to the cave, thanking the Gods that they had kept the fire burning in the corner. He grabbed a small knife and stuck it into the fire, waiting until it glowed white-hot before removing it and sprinting back down. He pulled Achilles’s hands away gently and removed the already blood-soaked cloth, picking up the bowl and washing the wound clean with water.

Achilles cried out, arching his neck back and bringing both his arms up to clutch at himself, but Patroclus pinned him down.

“No,” he said fiercely, ignoring the fear in his chest. “I know it hurts, Achilles, and I’m sorry, but you have to stay still, okay? It’s the only way I can do this.”

Achilles let out a whimper, his body twisting with pain even as he did his best to stay still.

Patroclus released him and poured the rest of the water carefully over the wound, washing away the blood to try and find where the blood was coming from. Finding it, he picked up the still-glowing knife and pressed it to the spurting without warning; if Achilles were expecting pain, it would be worse.

Still, Achilles screamed. Patroclus’s heart clenched at the agony tearing at his voice, at the way the veins stood out in his neck, at the way his body twisted in its attempt to get away. Patroclus put a hand on his chest and straddled his hips to hold him down, but he still writhed beneath him, and he bit the inside of his cheek in sympathy as steam rose.

The wound kept bleeding. Patroclus pressed the knife harder to the spurting, doing his best to ignore the way Achilles’s was screaming in pain, and finally, the bleeding stopped.

Patroclus removed the knife and cautiously released him; he lay panting on the ground, his eyes wide with shock.

“Achilles?” Patroclus asked hesitantly.

Achilles didn’t reply.

Patroclus touched his cheek gently. “Achilles?” he repeated.

Slowly, the green eyes focused on him. “I’m here, Patroclus,” Achilles whispered. His voice was high and tight, his beautiful features twisted in agony, but he was here.

Patroclus huffed a laugh of relief. “You’re going to be okay,” he said. “I promise. I’ll take care of you. I stopped most of the bleeding, but I still need to stitch it.” He bit his lip. “The spear…it tore you up. You shouldn’t have pulled it out.”

“Paris was going to kill you,” Achilles rasped, his eyes squeezing shut on a wave of pain. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t let him kill you.”

Patroclus shook his head. “Just relax now, alright? I need to stitch it, so I need you to stay as still as you can. I know it hurts.” He kissed him again. “You’ll be okay.”

He withdrew and pulled out the thin stitching needle and surgical wire from the bag, quickly tying a knot at the end of the wire so it wouldn’t pull out. Achilles’s organs had been torn up by the spear, and he needed to stitch them together; even if Agamemnon was right and killing Hector would instantly heal the wounds, finding Hector would still take time. He still needed to make sure the wounds wouldn’t reopen while he was away, needed to make sure Achilles would survive the time it took for him to find and kill Hector.

Achilles let out a gasp of pain as Patroclus pushed the needle through his flesh, his fists clenching and tearing up clumps of grass.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus whispered, his voice shaking.

Achilles shook his head, clenching his teeth. “Keep going,” he managed.

So Patroclus did. He stitched Achilles’s insides together, wincing in sympathy at every sign of pain he showed, before moving on to stitch the entrance to the wound. Achilles’s chest was heaving and his cheeks were wet by the time he had finished, but the bleeding had stopped and the wound was closed.

He pulled the jar of herb mixture and collected honey from the bag, pouring some of the herbs onto the wound. It stung, and Achilles let out a high keening as it burned the wound. Patroclus worked as quickly as he could to finish spreading the herbs before he applied the honey with shaking fingers to soothe inflammation and help fight any possible infection.

“You’re okay,” he whispered when he was finished.

Achilles turned his head to face him, his face still a mask of pain. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Patroclus murmured, his own body aching in sympathy and his chest clenching with fear. “You’ll feel better soon, alright? I need to dress your other wounds now, and then we’ll get you back up to the cave to rest.”

The other wounds weren’t nearly as bad, but they all still needed stitches. Patroclus dashed back to the nearby stream and refilled the bowl with water before carrying it back to wash the wounds, focusing on the one deep in his side first. Achilles gasped and flinched away as the cold water splashed against his ribs.

“You have to stay still,” Patroclus said.

Achilles whimpered but fought to stay still under the cold; the wound was still seeping blood but it had already slowed. The knife had already cooled too much to be used to cauterize the wound, so Patroclus pressed a wadded-up cloth to it instead.

“Hold this,” he instructed, hoping that having something to do would distract Achilles from the pain. Achilles’s fingers were cold and trembling as they brushed against Patroclus’s when he moved to take the cloth; Patroclus took them and squeezed them gently, trying to comfort him as best he could.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said again. “Just hold this here and stop the bleeding, and you’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Patroclus,” Achilles whispered, his voice shaking. His whole body glistened with sweat and his face was deathly pale with the amount of blood he had lost. “Patroclus, it…it won’t heal. A wound like this…I’ve seen it before. In Troy. No one…no one can live through it. Not even me.”

Patroclus leaned down and kissed him to silence him. His lips were cold. “Don’t say things like that. They didn’t have me,” he said sternly, trying to make himself believe it, even though he knew it was true, even though he knew that unless there was some miracle, unless Agamemnon was telling the truth and he killed Hector, Achilles would die a slow, painful death.

But he wouldn’t, because Patroclus would save him, whatever it took. “You’re going to be okay, I promise you. You’ll be the first to get better.”

“Patroclus, I –” Achilles broke off with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut on a wave of pain.

Patroclus felt his heart clench. “I’ve got you,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I’ve got you, and you’ll be fine. Just hold this to your side. I need to wash the other wounds.” He took the bowl and poured water over the wounds on his forearm and thigh; they weren’t particularly deep, for which he was grateful, and the bleeding had pretty much stopped. He stitched them shut and spread the herbs over them, ignoring Achilles’s gasp of pain, and then spread the honey on top for added protection against infection and inflammation before he and bound the wounds with more strips of cloth.

He touched Achilles’s other hand gently, and Achilles removed the cloth from his side. The wound had thankfully stopped bleeding with the pressure added, but would require more extensive stitches.

“Patroclus,” Achilles murmured. He had grown weaker, and his eyes were starting to close.

“No no no! You have to keep your eyes open,” Patroclus said, taking his face in his hands. “Please, Achilles, keep your eyes open, you have to stay conscious.”

His eyelids flickered. “So…so tired,” he whispered. “And thirsty…do you have water? I need water…”

Patroclus held the bowl to his lips, holding up his shoulders so that he could drink. His face contorted in pain with the movement, and he only drank a few mouthfuls before he let out a high keening and fell back, his body twisting.

“Please, Achilles, you have to hold on,” Patroclus pleaded. “Hold on, okay? You’ll be fine, I know you’re hurting, but you have to get through it. You _will_ get through it.” He held Achilles down until he stopped fighting and then, taking advantage of the stillness that came with exhaustion, he stitched the wound in his side shut. It had started to bleed again, as had the large one in his stomach, but the blood flow was slow. It would stop naturally.

He added herbs and honey on top of the wound, biting his lip in sympathy as Achilles gasped and tensed with the sting, and then bound it tightly.

“Done,” he murmured. “How are you feeling?”

Achilles’s eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. “You mean…apart from feeling like I was just impaled by a spear…which I pulled out of myself…?” He winced and turned his head to the side, his breath hitching.

Patroclus huffed a laugh. “Yes, apart from that. Do you feel okay to get up to the cave?”

“Will I…have to stand?”

Patroclus bit his lip. “Yes, you –” He broke off. Achilles had just pulled a spear out of his intestines to save him and he had lost a lot of blood; there was no way he would be able to walk all the way up to the cave.

But he couldn’t stay here either.

“No,” Patroclus said. “I’ll carry you.”

Achilles raised an eyebrow tiredly.

“Are you doubting me?” Patroclus demanded. He touched the bandage on Achilles’s stomach gently. “So, how are you feeling? Well enough to be carried a few hundred feet up a cliff?”

Achilles managed a laugh and then broke off with a wince at the movement, and Patroclus hovered over him worriedly, wishing he could do more to help him with his pain.

“I’m alright,” Achilles murmured when the wave of pain passed. He lifted an arm. “Carry me.”

Patroclus eased his arms under Achilles’s body, doing his best not to jostle him. Achilles put his arms around Patroclus’s neck and leaned into his chest; despite Patroclus’s best efforts, his body was tensed in pain by the time Patroclus stood back up. Patroclus shifted Achilles slightly to get a more secure hold on him; he let out a small cry.

“Sorry,” Patroclus whispered.

Achilles shook his head painfully. “I’m alright. Let’s go.”

Patroclus squeezed his arm gently and headed towards the cave. Despite his efforts to keep Achilles as still as possible, every movement hurt him, and by the time he was halfway up the cliff Achilles’s nails were digging into his shoulder and his breaths were fast and harsh and shallow with pain.

Patroclus paused on a small ledge to rest for a moment; Achilles was tall and all lean muscle, and he was heavy, and Patroclus’s thighs were already burning.

“Tired?” Achilles huffed, trying to make light of the situation despite how he had moved one arm from around Patroclus’s neck to clutch at his stomach.

Patroclus shook his head, pressing onwards. “I’m fine. We need to get you back to the cave so you can rest and stop being jostled around.”

Achilles winced. “Yes, I think that would be agreeable.”

Patroclus didn’t stop until they reached the cave. He set Achilles down gently against the wall before running to get an extra lynx pelt carpet. He dragged it over from where it was folded and stored at the back of the cave and spread it on top of the one already lying out before going back to Achilles.

“Can you make it another few feet?”

Achilles struggled to get up, but Patroclus pushed him back down gently.

“No way, Achilles, I didn’t mean you should get up. You are not walking _anywhere_ until you’re healed,” he said sternly, picking him up again and laying him down on the double-layered lynx pelts. He drew the deerskin blanket up to Achilles’s chest and then sat back. “Are you comfortable?”

“Still hurts,” Achilles mumbled.

Patroclus frowned. “As bad as before?”

Achilles shook his head. “No.”

“Well that’s good,” Patroclus said, even though he hated seeing Achilles in any kind of pain. “It’ll be like this for a while, but you’re going to get better. I promise. You’re not going to die; you’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met, so you’re going to recover.”

“Patroclus…no matter how good of a healer you are, you cannot do everything.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Patroclus took Achilles’s face in his hands and looked deep into his eyes. “The light that Hector shot at you – it was a spell. It slowed you down, took away your strength, which is why you got hurt, and when Paris hurt you, it was still while you were under Hector’s spell. Your injury is under his spell. You will never heal while he is alive, but as soon as he’s dead, the spell ends, and you recover.” He smiled at him reassuringly. “You’re going to live, because I am going to kill Hector.”

Achilles’s eyes widened and his hand shot forward, gripping Patroclus’s arm so hard that it hurt. “No,” he said, with sudden fierceness. “No, you can’t.”

Patroclus shook his head. “It’s alright, Achilles. I can do it, and I’ll be okay. I need to save you, and that’s the only way, so I have to kill him. Your condition has stabilized, so I’m leaving tonight.”

Still, there was panic in Achilles’s face. “No no no, Patroclus, you can’t. You can’t go after Hector.” He shook his head, his eyes wild. “You can’t, you can’t die again, not like last time –”

Patroclus frowned in confusion. “Like last time? What do you mean?”

Achilles didn’t appear to have heard him. “You can’t go after him, you’ll die, it’s happened every time before and I can’t – I can’t bear it again, not now, you can’t go after him, you can’t kill him!”

“Achilles!” Patroclus gripped him and shook him gently until his rambling stopped and his eyes locked onto Patroclus’s face. “Tell me, Achilles, what are you talking about? What do you mean I can’t die again? What’s all this about last time and every time?”

Achilles’s eyes were filled with a pain that had nothing to do with his wounds. “I’m immortal,” he whispered. “I’ve lived for two thousand years. There have been those before you who I have loved and lost, and all of them…all of them were you.”

Patroclus shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“You lived two thousand years ago with me,” Achilles said, and his voice shook. “You were with me at Troy, and then you died. And then you were born again, and then you died again, and then you were born again, and then you died again, and it kept happening over and over and over until – until now. Until you.”

Patroclus drew back in shock. “So you’re saying…what are you saying?”

“You have been born over and over again. Your spirit in different bodies. And I knew it was you, because how could I not? My Patroclus, over and over. And every time you died, it was because of Hector. That’s part of the reason I wasn’t there the day right after he and Paris attacked the first time; I was afraid you were already dead. But then you weren’t, but I was always, always afraid that he would still come to kill you, so I watched over you.” He broke off, his eyes squeezing shut in pain. “But Hector never came. Until now, and so now must be…it must be when history repeats again. That is why you cannot go, Patroclus. I can’t let you die.”

“And I can’t let you die,” Patroclus whispered. He took Achilles’s face in his hands. “I love you, Achilles, and I can’t just sit here and do nothing while you die. Killing Hector is the only way to break the spell and heal you, so I have to go after him.”

Achilles shook his head desperately. “No, Patroclus, please – I can’t lose you again.”

“I’ll be okay,” Patroclus said forcefully. “I’m going to kill him, and then you’ll be okay, and we’ll be together in a world without him. You’ll be safe, Achilles.”

“He’ll kill you,” Achilles said, and his eyes were bright with panic. “Please, Patroclus, I can’t –”

“I’ll be okay,” Patroclus insisted. He leaned down and kissed him briefly. “I promise I’ll be okay. You’re the one who taught me how to fight, remember? _You_ , Achilles. I learned from _Aristos Achaion._ The best of the Greeks.”

“You learned from me every other time too, and you still died. I can’t lose you,” Achilles whispered.

Patroclus shook his head. “And you think I can sit here and watch you in pain like this? Watch you _die_? Achilles, I have to do this. I have to save you. And it’ll be different this time. _I’ll_ win.” He bit his lip. “You still have to show me the ocean, remember?”

“You’ve seen the ocean,” Achilles murmured.

“No, not your ocean. I want _you_ to show me the ocean, not some servants on some ship on the way to Skyros. And you have to stay alive to show me.”

“I’ll stay alive, then,” Achilles said, but Patroclus didn’t miss how his face tightened with pain. “I’ll get better because you’re here, and then I’ll show you the ocean. Anything – anything to stop you from going after Hector.”

Patroclus knew Achilles would never willingly let him leave. He took a deep breath.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “You promise me to get better, and I won’t leave.”

It was a lie. But it was necessary. No matter what Achilles said and no matter how good of a healer Patroclus was, this was a wound that he couldn’t recover from. It was too deep, had done too much damage, even if it didn’t get infected. He didn’t know whether or not Agamemnon was telling the truth, but it was his only hope. And if it didn’t work, well…

No.

It would work.

It had to.

Achilles looked at him and gripped his arm tightly, his nails digging into Patroclus’s skin. “Promise me,” he said fiercely. “Promise me you won’t go after him. Promise me you’ll stay here, where it’s safe.”

Patroclus swallowed. “I promise.”

Achilles was still looking at him. “You can’t go after him,” he said, and his voice broke. “It’s not safe, and you need to be safe. For me. I’d die if you did.”

Patroclus smiled and brushed a kiss to his lips. “Guess I’ll have to stay alive then,” he said quietly. He leaned back and touched Achilles’s shoulder gently. “I’ll stay here.”

Slowly, Achilles released him. His breath hitched in pain. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’m…I’m so tired. Can I sleep now?” he asked softly, his eyelids already fluttering shut.

Patroclus leaned forward and pressed two fingertips to his neck to find his pulse. It was fast and weak, but didn’t feel dangerous; stopping the bleeding and being able to rest during the way up seemed to have improved his condition. And besides, now that the bleeding was stopped, the biggest danger was infection, and Patroclus would get to Hector before that happened.

“Drink some water first,” he said. “You need to stay hydrated.” There was still water from earlier that morning sitting in a jug nearby, which he held to Achilles’s lips. When he had finished all of it, he set the jug back down and readjusted the blankets, looking down at him fondly. “Yes, you can sleep now,” he said quietly, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his cold lips.

Achilles’s eyes closed, and he sank into sleep.

 

 

Patroclus watched him sleep for hours, not wanting to leave him yet, wanting to keep him comfortable. Though Achilles had seemed to have been stabilizing while he had been awake, after he fell asleep his temperature kept rising, and Patroclus sponged his body with cloth dipped in cold water to keep him cool. His skin was pale and dotted with sweat and his breathing was fast and shallow; he had started convulsing in his sleep and his wounds had started to bleed again.

Patroclus peeled back the bandage around Achilles’s stomach, drawing back in dismay; Achilles had torn some of the stitches in his convulsions and the wound had reopened, seeping blood into the bandages. And what was worse, it looked like it was getting infected; the flesh around the wound was red and inflamed.

Infection would kill faster than anything.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

Patroclus took some strips of cloth from the medicine bag and put them into the bottom of his bag. He then transferred some of the herbs and honey into separate jars which he slipped into his pack; Achilles’s life rested with him, and he needed to be able to take care of himself in case something happened and he got injured before he was able to kill Hector.

He took the bag to where the dried strips of meat were wrapped in leaves at the back of the cave, taking some and putting them into his bag. Not enough to last him for more than a few days, but enough to sustain him without him needing to hunt. He wanted to focus all of his time on tracking and taking down Hector, not squirrels, but he didn’t want to bring unnecessary things that would weigh him down.

Finally, he took one of the old deerskin blankets from the corner, rolled it up, and tied it to the outside of the bag. Though it was still May, the nights were still chilly, and he didn’t want to catch ill. The blanket wouldn’t add much weight.

“I’m sorry, Achilles,” he whispered as he slipped his sword back into its sheath around his waist, picked up his spear, and headed towards the entrance to the cave.

Just before he set foot outside, he stopped.

_Philtatos._

He took a deep breath.

_I will kill Hector._

He tightened his grip on his spear.

_I will come back._

He left the cave.

_I promise._

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't imagine life before you. It's like you were always there with me somehow, watching me as I ran through the streets as a child, as I learned how to heal by watching over Polarius's shoulder, as I met Briseis. But then again, in a way, I was always there with you too. I wonder what you remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more violence, but again, it's more action than gore.

 

 

Hector knew his way through the woods, and he knew how to leave little trace as to where he had gone. But Patroclus had been taught by a god who had lived for centuries in these woods, and so even when Hector’s initial panicked run, scattering leaves and breaking branches, had faded to a more careful and deliberate walk, he knew he would still be able to find him.

He followed Hector’s trail easily for the first mile; after that, it appeared that Hector had slowed and made a conscious effort to hide his trail, and it took considerably more concentration for Patroclus to find his next step.

The trail wound through the forest and across several streams, some of which Hector had followed downstream before stepping foot on the other shore, some of which he had followed upstream. Patroclus found his trail again every time on the muddy banks, following it back into the forest. Hector had done his best to be careful, but he was clearly much less experienced than he or Achilles; every few meters there was an overturned stone, a broken branch, a crushed berry. Just small things that were easy to miss; for anyone else, it might have seemed like Hector was a ghost. But for Patroclus, the signs were as clear as a footprint.

Patroclus adjusted the bag on his shoulder and tightened his grip on his spear as he followed the trail for the last few feet before the trees thinned out; Hector appeared to have headed down a steep, rocky cliff. He must have known he would be followed and was doing everything he could to dissuade Patroclus from following him.

On one hand, it wouldn’t work. Patroclus wouldn’t stop until Hector was dead. On the other hand, going down a steep, rocky cliff was certainly one way to throw Patroclus off his trail; there was no way Patroclus could track him across stone. Therefore, it was impossible to know whether or not Hector had actually gone down the cliff unless he reached the bottom and picked up his trail again there.

Patroclus bit his lip. If he was right and Hector had gone down, it would be for the better. But if he were wrong, he would waste precious time climbing down, looking for the nonexistent trail, and then climbing back up to find it again at the top.

He searched around for any tracks that he might have missed, but even though there wasn’t much, everything pointed towards the cliff.

He took a deep breath and headed down.

The cliff wasn’t nearly as difficult to descend as it had looked; there were numerous small cracks and crevices that he could jam his fingers or feet into while he lowered himself down, and there was only one small jump that he had to make. He reached the bottom within the hour and searched around the base for where Hector might have gotten down.

He couldn’t find anything.

“Fuck,” he hissed. He scanned the cliff for another plausible route down that Hector might have taken down, and spotted one a few dozen meters to his left. At the base, indeed, below the last foothold, was the faintest indication of a footprint; there was a small bit of kicked-up dirt and the stalk of a small wildflower was broken. Hector had landed there after jumping down from the last foothold.

A few meters away was yet more evidence in the slightly muddy ground. Patroclus felt a rush of triumph as he followed the trail. The land was flat and open now, and since it was in a valley, all of the rain had run into it and soaked the ground, leaving mud to well up between Patroclus’s toes.

Mud, as long as it wasn’t too wet, which this mud wasn’t, was wonderful for tracking. There was no way Hector could get through without leaving a clear trail, and with a clear trail to follow, this was Patroclus’s best chance at gaining ground.

The trail lead completely straight; Hector must have known the same thing and figured that it was best to get to dryer ground as fast as possible instead of wasting time trying to throw a tracker off his trail in an area where it would be impossible to do so. Patroclus ran along the trail, determined to catch him. The trail had been winding in the forest, but since a few miles before the cliff it had started to turn decidedly east towards a river Patroclus, and likely Hector as well, knew led to the sea. If Hector made it to the river before Patroclus found him, he would lose him forever. Plus, the night would give Hector cover while Patroclus would be forced to stop, unable to track in the dark, and every night that passed meant more ground that Patroclus lost.

So Patroclus pressed on until the sun had set and it was impossible for him to see Hector’s trail anymore. He stopped just a few meters away from it under a large tree, pulling the blanket out of his bag and draping it over himself, using the bag as a pillow and keeping his spear in his hand.

He would wake before dawn and follow Hector tomorrow.

 

 

Patroclus was up before the sun broke the horizon. It was just light enough for him to see the ground, and he kept following Hector’s trail. He couldn’t have lost much ground; even Hector had to sleep.

Bundling up his blanket and stuffing it back in his pack, he set off after Hector again, following him through the plains and another forest as the trail lead towards the river and the sea, going as fast as he could and sleeping only when it was impossible to continue because of the dark. But even with the advantage the night gave Hector, as the days passed, Hector’s tracks seemed to be getting fresher; the water in the broken stalks hadn’t dried completely, or the crushed berries were still soft and juicy.

Patroclus caught him on the fourth day, a few hundred meters from the river where the trees broke; Hector was already running towards the river.

Rage suddenly rushed through him. “Hector!” Patroclus screamed.

Hector turned. He didn’t look surprised to see Patroclus; on the contrary, he looked like he had been expecting him.

“Hector!” Patroclus screamed again. He dropped his bag on the ground and his grip tightened involuntarily on his spear as he started towards him. He thought of Achilles, still in the cave, suffering, _dying_ , because of the man in front of him. If it had not been for him, Achilles would not have been touched.

“Achilles is dead,” Hector said, just loud enough for Patroclus to hear him.

“No,” Patroclus spat. Achilles was not dead. He would have felt it. It had been four days; ever with infection, men were known to have survived longer.

Hector shrugged. “If he is not dead now, then he will be soon.”

“Unless I kill you,” Patroclus snarled. “Fight me!”

Hector turned and started towards the river again.

“Fight me!” Patroclus screamed. “Fight me, you coward!”

At that, Hector stopped. “I am no coward,” Hector called back; he turned and drew the sword at his side, and Patroclus ran towards him, anger flooding his veins and fueling his strength. He leapt, his spear held high, preparing to drive it downwards into Hector’s throat, but the other man sidestepped and struck out with his sword, just barely missing Patroclus’s thigh. He was a spellcaster, but he had been taught to fight, and fight well.

Patroclus landed and spun on his heel, lashing out with his spear and swinging it towards Hector’s legs, aiming to hit him behind his knees and knock him off his feet, but Hector leapt up over it; Patroclus snarled in frustration.

Hector swung his sword, his strike faster and stronger than Patroclus had anticipated, and he barely got his spear up in time to block the strike. He leapt backwards out of range and stabbed with his spear at the same time, hoping to hit Hector before he had time to withdraw, but Hector slipped away from the tip, elusive as a fish in the water.

They fought for close to an hour without either of them landing touches on the other. It was like a dance, the way they weaved around each other, never touching save the occasional clang of metal against spear shaft before they whirled away from each other again; two birds, stuck in everlasting flight.

“I did not wish for this,” Hector said, blocking Patroclus’s next strike.

Patroclus spat.

“I didn’t,” Hector said earnestly, ducking under the tip of Patroclus’s spear. “I loved my brother, Patroclus. I tried to make him see sense.” He blocked the next attack. “But he would not be swayed; he had to come after Achilles. I knew Achilles would kill him if I did not act, so I –” He ducked and lashed out, forcing Patroclus to step back for a moment. “I told him I would help him defeat Achilles. I did not want to see him dead, so I prepared a spell. I told him I would let him go when we could defeat him. That is why – I loved my brother as much as you love Achilles. Would you not do this for Achilles?”

“You could never love anyone as much as I love Achilles,” Patroclus yelled, lashing out with renewed ferocity. But he forced himself to push back his anger; it would cloud his judgment, make him slower, clumsier, blinder. He needed his mind to be clear if he was to kill Hector. He drew his sword from where it hung at his side, and with the two weapons, he attacked again, swinging them both, cutting under with one while Hector blocked the other; the edge of his sword bit for the first time at the skin beneath Hector’s ribs, drawing blood.

Hector let out a gasp, stumbling, but recovering and stepping away before Patroclus had time for another strike. Fueled by triumph, Patroclus struck out again and Hector just barely managed to avoid getting his head cut off; blood welled in a thin line on his throat.

Patroclus curled his lip. “I will kill you,” he said. “I will rip your life from you like you tried to do with Achilles.”

“I know,” Hector said. “But you will not get it easy.”

Patroclus lunged forward, feinting with his sword while his spear struck forward in his other hand. Hector managed to duck under both of them and struck out with his own sword while Patroclus was momentarily exposed; though this meant Hector himself was also exposed, Patroclus was forced to retreat to avoid being run through. He hissed and sidestepped, arching around the blade and lashing out with his spear.

Hector knocked it away with his sword and staggered backwards away from Patroclus’s sword, but Patroclus kept coming forward, his barely contained rage fueling him, lending him speed and strength and the gifts of Achilles, and when he spun and lashed out with his sword again, it cut deep into Hector’s thigh.

Hector’s breath left him in a gasp and he sank to his knees for a moment, struggling to get back to his feet but crippled by the blow. Blood streamed down his leg, and Patroclus lashed out with his sword again, drawing blood from his right arm, his sword arm.

Hector cried out and fell forward onto his other hand.

“Get up,” Patroclus snarled. “Get up and fight me!”

Hector struggled, and then fell again; his leg was badly injured and would not hold his weight.

“Achilles fought with worse wounds than you,” Patroclus said, disgusted.

“Achilles was a better warrior than I,” Hector countered.

Patroclus stepped forward, holding the tip of his sword to Hector’s chin. “Get up,” he repeated, and his voice shook with anger.

And then Hector struck. With lightning speed, propelled forward by his good leg and taking advantage of Patroclus’s momentary closeness, he lunged forward with his sword in front of him. Patroclus leapt backwards, but he was caught by surprise, and he couldn’t get away fast enough to avoid the blade entirely; the tip of Hector’s sword sank into the soft skin just beneath his ribs.

Pain shot through him and he stumbled, gasping, as Hector staggered to his feet.

“I told you,” Hector said. “You will not get my life easily.”

Patroclus snarled. He tightened his grip on his spear, pushing away the pain, and leapt forward, taking advantage of Hector’s injured leg and injured fighting arm that he knew would slow him down significantly. He struck low with his sword, cutting deep just above Hector’s right hip, and when Hector cried out and crumpled in pain, he launched his spear forward into his shoulder.

Hector fell to his knees, his eyes stunned. The spear hadn’t pierced his heart, but Patroclus hadn’t intended it to. Instead, the angle of the spear had caused it to puncture a lung; whether Patroclus killed him now or not, he was a dead man.

Hector stayed on his knees, gasping for air. His sword clattered onto the ground, fallen from nerveless fingers.

“I may not get your life easily, but I will take it,” Patroclus said, and he drove his sword into his heart.

 

 

Patroclus ripped his sword and spear out of Hector’s lifeless body. The wound below his ribs throbbed and was still leaking blood, but it was done. He had done it. He had killed Hector. Achilles would be safe, and that was all that mattered.

His wound throbbed. He peeled back his bloodied chiton from it with a wince, picking up the bag he had discarded before attacking Hector and limping towards the river to wash it. When he was done dressing the wound, he returned to Hector’s body. The sun was nearly set, and he began digging a shallow grave for it near the trees where it would be more sheltered; whatever he had done, he should be put to rest. To wander the earth forever, alone for the rest of eternity, never able to be at peace, never able to reunite with their loved ones in death, was a terrible fate.

Achilles in his immortality had taught him that.

By the time the grave was dug, it was already dark and the stars were beginning to come out. He dragged the body to the grave and piled up the dirt on top of it before finding a fairly large stone by the banks of the inky river. With the tip of his spear, he scrawled Hector’s name on it.

“There,” he murmured, placing the stone at the head of the grave and sitting back. “It’s done. Be at peace.”

It was, he thought, more than Hector deserved.

 

 

Patroclus stumbled away from the simple grave, back the way he had come, back to Achilles, even though it was dark out. Despite the bandages he had tried to wrap as tightly as possible around himself, his wounds were still bleeding; he hadn’t brought stitches with him, having not anticipated needing them. If it kept bleeding, he would be at a risk of passing out from blood loss.

He stumbled again over a root, falling and catching himself with his hands, wincing as small stones in the dirt cut into his palms. Pain shot through him from his wound and he gasped, doubling over; there was no way he would be able to make it much further tonight. He crawled a few feet away to where a tree lay fallen, exposing its roots to the air, and collapsed in the small cave its tangle of roots created. His wound was still throbbing and he curled around it, pulling his blanket over himself and closing his eyes.

He woke later than he would have liked the next morning; the sun was already up. He touched his wound tenderly; it still hurt, and the skin just around the bandages felt hot. It wasn’t a good sign; it signaled an oncoming infection, despite the herbs he’d applied to the wound. His best bet was to wash it and reapply fresh herb poultice and bandages.

With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, bundling up his blanket and stuffing it back in his bag, shouldering it and continuing back.

He found a stream a few miles away, its water cold, clear, and slightly sweet. It ran fast through rocks, going over some small waterfalls and crashing into the small pool of water below. He knelt by it and painfully removed the bandages; to his dismay, his wound was indeed starting to show signs of infection. The skin around it was red and slightly swollen, and it was tender to the touch.

“Great,” he griped, and bent forward to wash the old bandages in the stream. When they were clean, he wrung them dry, put them back in his bag, and splashed some water onto his wound, gasping and shivering with the cold but relishing in the relief they brought the hot, inflamed skin. He pulled the jars of honey and herb out of his bag, spreading some of each onto the wound before binding it again with fresh strips of cloth from his bag. He stood and continued back, munching on one of his last strips of dried meat as he walked to keep his energy up.

By late afternoon, though, his wound was throbbing again and his heat felt hot; his vision was slightly blurry and his mouth felt dry, even though he had drunk from every stream he had passed and had no right to be dehydrated.

He stumbled, falling onto his knees, his vision swimming. He winced as his wound sent pain shooting through his body. He forced himself back to his feet, making it a few steps before he stumbled again and fell to the ground.

He stayed there for a moment, blinking rapidly and willing his vision to clear, panting, feeling beads of sweat run down his face. His wound was flaring with pain.

 _Get back up,_ he told himself fiercely. _You need to get back up. Make it back to Achilles._

But he couldn’t. His vision was so blurry that even when he stood, he just fell again. When he went to his knees for the fourth time, he couldn’t make it back to his feet, and he fell onto his side. He felt himself drifting, felt his vision fading to black, and as much as he tried to prevent himself from falling unconscious, he couldn’t.

His eyes closed, and a nightmare came to him as he sank further into blackness, no doubt borne out of the haze of his illness. It was Achilles, but his wound was deeper than Patroclus remembered, festering, an angry red. His green eyes blazed with anger as he approached Patroclus; he was dark and terrible and bone-thin like a vengeful shade, his mouth twisted in an ugly snarl in his skeletal face.

“You didn’t save me,” he hissed, and his voice was garbled, twisted, harsh, dripping with venom.

Patroclus tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He was paralyzed, held in place, helpless as the monster that was Achilles approached.

“You promised,” he said, and blood began to drip from his mouth.

“Achilles!” Patroclus pleaded, as the shade’s skin began to break out in blisters, bursting with blood and pus. “Achilles, please – I’m sorry, I tried, I really tried –”

The shade ignored his pleas, continuing to advance. He bared his teeth and they were filed to points like a wolf’s, ready to tear into Patroclus’s flesh. He held his hands out and his nails were like claws, and when he gripped Patroclus, it was like he was being pierced with knives.

Patroclus threw back his head and screamed. It was like his body was on fire, and Achilles’s fangs were buried in the skin beneath his ribs, tearing and ripping, and Patroclus’s hands, trying to fight him, trying to push him away, went right through him as if he were nothing more than mist.

“You didn’t save me,” Achilles repeated, and when Patroclus looked at him, his eyes were dead.

Then another voice entered his dreams – Achilles, still, but warmer, kinder. The Achilles he knew. Patroclus reached for him, tried to find him in the darkness, but he couldn’t. He was blind, and even though Achilles was a light in his darkness, he couldn’t find it.

Then Patroclus felt a hand gripping his, gentle, firm, soothing. He followed the touch, strove towards it, and then emerged into the light.

Achilles, the real Achilles, was kneeling over him, and the image of the shade evaporated. His beautiful golden face was lined with worry, his beautiful green eyes shining with panic, and then relief, as Patroclus’s gaze focused on him.

“Patroclus,” he whispered, and it was all at once a sigh, a gasp, a laugh, a sob.

Patroclus opened his mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. His throat was raw and burning, and Achilles darted away, returning moments later with a bundled-up strip of cloth soaked with cold stream water. He held it to Patroclus’s lips and Patroclus drank eagerly, soothing his parched throat.

Achilles was speaking again, but Patroclus couldn’t hear him. Already he was slipping back into darkness, and just before everything faded back to black, he felt Achilles pick him up in his arms, felt soft lips brush against his forehead, and then his eyes closed and he knew nothing.

 

 

When Patroclus woke again, he was back in Achilles’s cave, naked under the blanket he assumed Achilles had draped over him. He blinked his eyes open, and barely a moment later he was smothered by a very relieved golden god who smelled like sandalwood and pomegranate and something like almonds.

“Patroclus,” Achilles practically yelled, his voice shaking in relief.

“Hey,” Patroclus mumbled, cracking a grin as Achilles released him, his eyes bright and shining, so different from the shade that had appeared to him in his dreams. His grin widened. “You’re healed.”

“Yes,” Achilles said. “Except for a scar, but that doesn’t trouble me.”

“Oh.” Patroclus frowned. “How long…?”

“You were out for two days,” Achilles said. “How are you feeling?”

Patroclus frowned some more, touching his wound gingerly, surprised when it did little more than twinge. “Much better, actually,” he murmured. “I…it was infected,” he said slowly, willing his brain to remember what had happened. “I’d killed Hector, but he’d hurt me, and then I started back, but it must have been infected pretty badly, because…I collapsed, and I don’t remember much after that.”

Achilles’s mouth hardened. “Hector hurt you.”

“Yes,” Patroclus conceded, “but he didn’t kill me.” He gave Achilles a wry smile. “I told you. I promised that I would be okay, and I was right, wasn’t I?”

“He hurt you,” Achilles said again.

“But I didn’t die,” Patroclus pointed out. “I won. I killed him. I saved you.”

Achilles was still unhappy. “You lied to me.”

Patroclus winced. “Yes, I know…I’m sorry. But I had to, okay? I had to save you. I couldn’t just sit there and watch you die, but you wouldn’t let me leave willingly, so I had to tell you I wouldn’t leave so you would be able to rest. I had to do something, and I knew I could do it. I knew I could save you if I could just find Hector. And I did. I found him, and I killed him.”

Achilles pouted for a moment before he leaned forward and kissed Patroclus gently. “I’m still not happy,” he murmured, “but…I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you’re okay.” Then he pulled back, alarm in his eyes. “He didn’t cast any spells on you, did he?”

Patroclus laughed, and then winced with the pain the movement caused. “No, he didn’t. I’ll be fine; I feel better already, see?”

Achilles gave him an uncertain smile. “I…alright. As long as you do get better.”

“I will,” Patroclus promised. He turned slightly so he was better facing Achilles and grinned. “We’ll be together, safe from Hector and Paris and anyone else who wants to hurt us.”

Achilles bit his lip.

Patroclus frowned. “Why, are you not happy about that?”

“No, that’s not…I’m just wondering why…” Achilles trailed off, frowning. “I don’t know how to say this more gently. I’m just wondering why you’re not dead.”

“You’re wondering why Hector didn’t kill me,” Patroclus said softly.

Achilles couldn’t meet his gaze, and was suddenly very interested in the ground in front of him. “Yes. It’s not that I didn’t have faith in your ability, it was just…”

“Before,” Patroclus said. “It was just because of what happened before. I know, Achilles.” He struggled to a more upright position, waving off Achilles’s look of concern, so he could sit up and face him better. “I know. You told me. You said with every other…incarnation, I guess it would be called? With every other incarnation of me, I always died because of Hector. He was always the one who killed me, and now that he’s dead, you’re wondering if he did something that’s going to kill me indirectly, because that’s how it’s always been.” He smiled and took Achilles’s hand, pressing it to his lips. “But he didn’t. He did nothing to me. I’m going to get better.”

Still, Achilles did not look convinced. “Two thousand years, Patroclus,” he whispered. “And every time, it has been the same way.”

“Just because it happened hundreds of times before does not mean it has to happen the same way in the future,” Patroclus said softly. “Such things are not set in stone.”

Achilles glanced at him uncertainly. “I love you, Patroclus,” he murmured. “I couldn’t bear to lose you again. When I woke up and saw that you’d left…” He trailed off, clenching his jaw and refusing to meet Patroclus’s eyes. “I thought you were as good as dead. I would have burned down the world, would have slaughtered the gods themselves, if those things had the power to bring you back. But they did not, and all I knew to do was to come after you, to find you and be with you and put you to rest and stay by your grave until I, by some chance, died.”

Patroclus bit his lip, chastised. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. It didn’t do enough to convey the pain he felt for Achilles. “But I had to.”

“I know. I would have done the same for you.”

Patroclus gave him a soft smile, and then he sighed and looked down. “Maybe it would have been better if I’d let you kill them that first time,” he murmured. “If you’d gone after them instead of staying back to care for me. Then all this wouldn’t have happened. I mean, it turned out fine in the end, but still…I would rather not have seen you hurt.”

Achilles shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. We cannot change the past.” He paused. “I did try to track them. After they hurt you, I tried to follow their tracks, but their horses were fast. They went further than I could travel in one day, and I stayed in the forest to watch over you when you came, in case they returned. Only when you left for Skyros did I have the time to follow them, but by then it would have been impossible. I thought, by the time eight years had passed, that they had given up or forgotten, and planned to watch over you and be ready to kill Hector first in case he returned.”

“I guess immortality has too strong a lure for mortals,” Patroclus said wryly.

“I suppose so, yes.”

Patroclus tilted his head. “I’ve been wondering, though. Does your blood really grant immortality?”

Achilles gave a laugh. “No. That’s a myth. And I would know; I’ve already tried it before.”

A small crease formed between Patroclus’s eyes. “You have?”

“Yes. With you. In the past.” Achilles flashed him a brilliant smile, and Patroclus was, as always, completely disarmed. “But, in a way, it is a good thing that it didn’t work. If it had, _you_ would not have come, and I love you the most.”

“Me?” Patroclus asked, astonished. “But I’m…I’m _me_. They were all me. I’m the same, aren’t I?”

Achilles was still smiling. “No. Every time, you are slightly different. Of course, your soul is the same, but the way you look, the way you act, the way you talk…there are slight changes every time. Except for you. You are most like the first, the Patroclus I went to Troy with, the Patroclus I loved most until you. It’s like he’s come back to me.”

Patroclus blinked. “Oh,” he said. It was all he could say.

“The chiton,” Achilles said. “The green one. It belonged to him. To you.”

Patroclus sat up straighter and shifted so he was facing Achilles directly. “I want to hear about you,” he said, and his eyes were bright with excitement. “Tell me your story. Our story.”

Achilles leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. “Alright,” he murmured. “I will tell you about us.”

 

 

“I was born and raised on Phthia, as you know already, as its prince. You came to me when you were ten, after murdering a boy named Clysonymus. Yes,” he said to Patroclus’s astonished gasp. “They were all born again and again. Clysonymus, Odysseus, Ajax, even Briseis. You did not kill the boy intentionally; you told me of it once, that you attacked him when he insulted you and he fell and hit his head on a rock. But your father and his family did not see it that way, and you were exiled, to be raised on Phthia.

“I had seen you once before, at the games when I was five. I won all of the races, of course, and you hated me.” A bright grin flashed across his face. “That changed, of course, but we both know that. But for the time, you hated me. And I could not forget the first time I saw you; brave, stubborn, sullen, unlike any of the other boys I had ever met. You did not fawn over me; you did not try to win my favor. You treated me like no one else, and I found you most interesting for it. We did not speak, not yet, but I think you noticed me moving closer to you at mealtimes, noticed me watching you. It was like a game for me, really, to watch your eyes meet mine when I caught you staring and then watch you look away in anger. Why you hated me, I did not know. Perhaps it was just because I was a prince and you were an exile.

“But that does not matter. I juggled figs for you, one day, and then when you began avoiding the morning drills, I found you hiding in the storeroom. It was then that I invited you to my lessons, and it was then that I asked my father to make you my _therapon_.”

 _Therapon_. Companion, sworn to him by oaths of blood and love. No, not companion. Brother.

Patroclus felt his breath catch in his throat.

“You began to sleep in my room, as was the custom for prince and _therapon_. You told me about yourself,” Achilles said with a wistful smile. “You talked about the palace you were born in, then skipping stones, then a wooden horse you had liked to play with, and then the lyre that belonged to your mother, which I had been using in my lessons. You were so young, so… _pure_. Your youth and goodness shone through in everything that you did. And then you began to come with me to watch me fight.” He gave a small laugh. “You wanted to fight me. _You_ , Patroclus, who had never really been taught how to fight before, you wanted to fight _me_. I won, of course, and you said you had never seen anyone fight the way I did. There were olives above us; I remember hearing them rattle.”

Achilles kept talking, speaking of how Patroclus – the first Patroclus – had looked when he had come back from seeing his mother the first time, of how, one summer, they had kissed on the beach by the driftwood, and he had run away because he knew his mother had been watching, of how his mother had sent him away to be taught by Chiron, of how Patroclus had followed him and they had stayed on Mount Pelion for two years and how on Mount Pelion they had touched each other for the first time, and of how Achilles had made Patroclus promise that he would be the first hero to be happy, because Patroclus was the reason for it.

Then he spoke of returning to Phthia and the men that came to bring news of the war with Troy because the beautiful wife of Menelaus had been abducted by Paris, commenting that it was funny, in an ironic sort of way, that Paris and Menelaus had been working together just a few years ago in this life. He spoke of how his mother had taken him to Skyros to protect him from the war, where he had been disguised as one of Deidameia’s dancers and forced to wed her and lay with her and give her a child, and of how Patroclus had come for him, and of how he had proclaimed Patroclus his husband.

At that, Patroclus – the Patroclus now, two thousand years later –  blushed, and Achilles laughed.

“Husband?” Patroclus snorted.

“Is that not what we are now?” Achilles asked with a smile.

Patroclus snorted again, but did not deny it.

So Achilles kept talking, of how Odysseus had staged an attack to reveal him, forcing him to come to Troy with them, of how Agamemnon had promised his daughter, Iphigenia, to Achilles as his wife and then slaughtered her as a sacrifice to Artemis for safe travel to Troy. It had been the first death he had ever seen, and Patroclus had comforted him. He had been a healer, even then, in his own way. And then Achilles told him about the war.

Patroclus had come with him, of course. There had been no question about it. He had helped Achilles with his armor and stayed in the camp while Achilles had gone out to fight, first in raids and then in battle, and he had never been touched. Everyone said it was because he was _Aristos Achaion_. But, Achilles confessed, he thought it had more to do with Patroclus than anything else.

It was during one of the raids that they met Briseis. She was an Anatolian farm-girl who did not speak Greek, and Patroclus had Achilles claim her to protect her from the unwanted touches of Agamemnon, who surely would have claimed her otherwise. It was Patroclus who taught her Greek and befriended her, earned her trust, and it was Patroclus who sent Achilles out to claim the other girls the men had brought in during the raids, to save them. It was Patroclus, holding onto Achilles’s humanity when the war threatened to take it from him.

He told him of Patroclus’s first time in battle, of how he hadn’t killed, because Achilles had protected him from it, kept the Trojans away from him. He told him of how Patroclus told him that he could never kill Hector, and how every time someone came up to him and asked him when he would confront the Trojan prince, he would reply with the maddening question: what had Hector ever done to him?

Nothing, yet. They were still young. Achilles spoke of their small family in the camp, the family that consisted of Achilles, Patroclus, Briseis and the women, Phoinix, and Automedon. Oh, yes, Automedon, always the charioteer. Only seventeen at the time, but brave and skilled.

He spoke of the long years waiting for something to happen, waiting for a decisive battle, waiting for victory. There had been a plague, sent by the gods, and then Agamemnon had taken Briseis from Achilles, and Achilles had refused to fight for him any longer.

That, Achilles said with a wry smile, had been the beginning of the end. The Greeks fell before the Trojans without him, and finally, in desperation, Patroclus had gone to battle in his place. Achilles would not break his promise to not fight, and the Greeks, thinking it was Achilles in his armor, would have someone to rally behind.

Then Hector had killed Patroclus. Then Achilles had killed Hector, and that was the end of it. That was the end of _Aristos Achaion_ in that age of battle. Achilles had disappeared. He had tried to die, because a life without Patroclus was no life at all, but he could not. It was then that his mother had appeared to him and told him the truth of his mortality. He had been born mortal, of course. The child of a human and a god is still not a god. But Achilles had gone to war for glory, to be remembered in history. He wanted to be immortal. And the gods, in a cruel twist of fate, fulfilled that wish, just not in the way he wanted. They made him immortal instead of his legacy.

Gifts from the gods always came with an edge.

 

 

Patroclus listened with rapt attention, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open in awe. “Tell me more,” he whispered when Achilles fell silent. “Tell me about next time, and the time after that. I want to hear about it.”

“Alright,” Achilles murmured, shifting so he was closer to Patroclus, gripping his hand tight as if he would never let go. “You came back to me thirty years later. You were seventeen. I had been in the woods near Opus, although I didn’t know it at the time; I had stopped caring long ago where I was and what was going on in the world around me. You were gone, and my life was empty. But then you came back to me one day while you were hunting. I didn’t believe it at first,” he said with a laugh. “How could I? There had been no legends of reincarnation and second chances. But I listened, I watched, and I learned that it really was you. You looked much the same, and your soul was the same. You just didn’t remember me, and that was the most painful part.

“But we grew to know each other. You were married already, to Briseis. She was a princess in that life, and your marriage would have made you king if your father had been dead. But he was alive, and you were still a prince, and you brought me back to the palace. Briseis hated me at first, I think, but eventually we grew to understand each other. You had both of us; a wife and a lover. A wife, because your people needed a queen, and a lover, because you needed me. Then, when you were twenty-three, a man named Hector slit your throat with a knife.

“You came back again just seven years after that. You were five, and an orphan, lost in the woods. I didn’t know how you had gotten there, and you didn’t remember. I found you and raised you, and we lived like shades in the forest. I taught you to hunt, to fight, to heal, to survive, and you taught me how to live again. I had been twenty-five for forty-three years, and though my body had frozen, my mind had not. I did not feel young anymore, except for when I found you. Then, it was like I was a child again and knew nothing of the war, knew nothing of the troubles of life. It was just us for over sixty long years. Oh, I’m sure Briseis and Agamemnon and Paris were out there somewhere, but in the woods, it was just the two of us. It was one of the few times that we did get to grow old together – well, you grew old, and I was by your side the entire time. We wandered, not caring where we were because it didn’t matter so long as we were together, and we ended up far from Opus.

“Hector killed you then. He was king of some distant kingdom, and we were in his land. He was a cruel king and it was a time of war, and he killed you. I was not there; it was the only time I was not there, otherwise I would have stopped him. I was hunting, because you were old and I was still young and strong, and my body could withstand the harshness of hunting in the winter while yours could not. When I found your body, blood still hot and freshly spilled, I went after him, and I killed him. But of course, it kept happening.

“I had learned what was happening by then. I was immortal, doomed to watch you be born and die and be born again, over and over and over until the end of time. And I loved you, every time. I found you, every time, or you found me. But it was two thousand years, Patroclus, and there were times were centuries passed before you were born again and we found each other. As time passed, more and more it was that there were centuries instead of just decades before you returned; I had been here for four hundred years, alone, before you came. So I changed. That is why, when you found me in this life, I was not the same as I had been when I was young, when I was truly only twenty-five years old. I was much more carefree, then. Much more naïve.”

Patroclus leaned forward. “You may have changed, but I still love you,” he whispered. He tilted his head and smiled. “Tell me more about when we were young,” he said. “You told me what we did, but not about what we said. Not about what it was like to be by my side – by _his_ side. Not about what I looked like. You said I am the most like him.”

“You are,” Achilles said, and his green eyes were sparkling. “You have the same eyes. They are the same warm brown, the same shape. They have the same gentle fold underneath them.” He traced it with the tip of his finger. “They crinkle the same way when you laugh. And this,” he murmured, touching Patroclus’s cheek. “The same arch, the same noble roundness just below your eyes but still sharp underneath, so your cheeks are hollow. When you were young, I don’t expect that they were so hollow, but you have a man’s face now.” His hand moved to Patroclus’s lips. “And this, the same soft arch like a bow, the same dark pink. The feel the same, too, on my skin.”

Patroclus’s breath hitched.

“We went diving one day,” Achilles said softly, still tracing Patroclus’s lips. “It was after Mount Pelion, when we returned to Phthia, one of the rare days that the older men weren’t talking about the war. There was a cliff, and of course you didn’t want to do it, it wasn’t safe. But we did it anyway, and you came up from the water and water droplets glistened on your skin like fresh rain on a rose petal, and when we came out onto the beach I kissed every single one off of you, and then your lips. Your skin still tastes the same, still feels like silk, still looks the same.”

His hand slid down to Patroclus’s neck. “Still elegant like a dark swan, delicate but strong, carved so that I could watch all the muscles shift under your skin when you turned your head to watch the birds fly, or to watch the figs fly in my hands. It distracted me, you know, the desire to kiss it, and more than once it was the cause of me missing a catch.”

Now his hands were on Patroclus’s chest, ceaseless in their movement, singing over his collarbones, dancing over his sternum. “Warm and strong,” he murmured, and one hand stilled over Patroclus’s heart. “It’s like the beat to the music we watched the servants dance to. It’s the beat to my life, keeping me alive. I would fall asleep next to you, sometimes, listening to it and watching it in your neck, making sure that you were still with me and would never leave, and only then could I relax enough to sleep. When you took me, I would feel it against me, strong and steady and sure, and I knew it beat for me just as my heart beats for you.”

His hands skimmed over Patroclus’s sides and stomach. “Like the best warriors,” he said softly. “Smooth and strong and lean, so that when we ran naked on the beach and climbed the trees for the best fruit I could see every movement reflected in your body, every small shift that you made, and I wanted to touch your beauty so badly that once I nearly fell from a tree, missing my footing because you were sitting above me, leaning over me and pulling fruits from the branches and taunting me with your nakedness. It was the only time my feet ever failed me; because of you, and this.”

His touched moved to Patroclus’s hips and the tops of his thighs. “Always strong, always long and lean, your bones protruding just so,” he said quietly, his fingers smoothing the edges of Patroclus’s hips. “Your skin was always so soft here, where your legs join your body. I would touch it before I touched you, and you would always beg for more. We raced each other, and when I won you would tackle me out of frustration first and then fondness, and we would wrestle, our skin sweaty and hot and dirty, and I would pin you down and press myself against you, and you always felt the same, your hips fitting against mine like it was always meant to be.”

Patroclus was almost panting now, his skin pimpling under his touch, charged like lightning. “Achilles,” he rasped, “Achilles, _please_ ,” and Achilles leaned forward to kiss him.

“I didn’t even get to your hands,” Achilles murmured with a soft laugh. “Or the rest of your legs, or your back, or your feet.”

“I don’t care,” Patroclus said, and his hands were on Achilles’s hips, pulling him closer and then down to lie on the lynx pelts beside him. “Skip to the best part.”

Achilles smiled against his skin and then his fingers were on Patroclus, wrapping around him and pulling noises of pleasure from his throat. Patroclus was still injured, so he was gentle and slow, making love to him, focusing only on him, pleasuring him.

“Is this the same too?” Patroclus whispered, and his breathing was ragged as Achilles stroked, slow and languid like they had all the time in the world.

“Yes,” Achilles breathed.

Patroclus’s back arched and he spilled in his hand.

 

 

“Tell me, Achilles,” Patroclus said later, lying on his side and watching Achilles watching him.

“Anything.” Achilles raised a hand and brushed a stray hair from Patroclus’s face.

“If you had a choice, for me to become immortal or for you to become mortal, which would you choose?”

Achilles made a face. “Such a thing could never come to pass.”

“It’s hypothetical,” Patroclus said. “Just answer the question. It doesn’t matter whether or not it could really happen; that’s the point. I just want to know what you _would_ do.”

Achilles’s gaze was even. “Well, then, I would choose mortality.”

Patroclus frowned. “Why? If I were immortal, we would have eternity.”

“Immortality is tiring,” Achilles murmured. “Even if we had each other, watching the world turn and the tides of great nations rise and fall…we would tire of the world, and that tiredness would just keep growing, and a life such as that is no life, even with each other. Trust me when I say mortality is better. You do things better when you are mortal. You learn to appreciate life more. You love more, and all I want to do is to love you more.” He shifted so he was closer to Patroclus, and his face was serious. “If I had the chance to become mortal, I would take it in an instant.”

“And me?” Patroclus asked softly. “Me, in the future. When I am reborn again.”

Achilles waved a hand dismissively. “You would not know me. It would not matter. You would not miss someone you never knew.”

“You’re wrong,” Patroclus whispered. “I would feel a hole inside of me, a hole that no one would ever be able to fill. I would spend my entire life looking for you without even knowing it was you, and then I would die, and then I would be born again and do it all over again.” He paused and bit his lip. He imagined Hector, wandering alone and empty for eternity if not for the grave. That would be Achilles’s fate, except for the few years he had with Patroclus every few centuries. That was already Achilles’s fate. “But I understand. I would give you mortality if I could.”

Achilles rolled over onto his back and clasped his hands together on his chest. “I want to be mortal,” he said. “That is my greatest wish. To be mortal and grow old with you.”

Patroclus tried to picture it, and flashes of memory came back to him from years ago when he thought of the same thing, lying beside him before he left for Skyros. He had imagined gold turning to silver, graceful and lovely as ever. He had imagined sitting by the lake above the meadow, both of them old and frail but still young in memories. He had imagined lying under the stars with the sweet scent of fresh rain on young grass and the sharpness of pine trees brought to them by the wind.

He turned to Achilles. “Maybe one day,” he said. “Maybe one day the gods will give you that gift.”

“Maybe,” Achilles murmured.

Maybe, if the gods were kind.

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say our ghosts come back to haunt us later, but sometimes, contrary to popular belief, it can be something truly beautiful.

 

 

Patroclus went back to Opus; it had been a few months, and he hadn’t had a chance to see Polarius the last time he had gone. So he walked through the streets again, unable to stop a smile from spreading across his face as he heard the familiar marketplace sounds, the vendors trying to sell fruit, vegetables, animals, the children laughing and playing, the clatter of hooves of horses and donkeys as they were lead from one master to another or pulled carts from one place to the next.

He headed up towards the medical building, and the same healer as last time – Eirene, her name was – greeted him as he walked in.

She squinted at him. “I remember you,” she said slowly. “You came by a few months ago, asking for two of our healers.” She frowned. “But you don’t live here. I’ve met nearly everyone since I became a healer a few years ago, and I’ve never seen you before, except for last time.”

Patroclus winced. “I…no, I don’t live here. Not anymore. I used to, and I come by every so often to visit.”

“Ah.” Her expression cleared. “Agapetos, was it? I’ll get him for you,” she said. “I assume that’s who you’re looking for?”

“And Polarius,” Patroclus said quickly as she was turning to leave. “If you could get Polarius for me as well, that would be wonderful.”

Eirene nodded. “Wait here.”

She returned a few minutes later, and both healers were behind her. Agapetos let out a yelp as soon as he saw him, running forward and embracing him tightly. Patroclus let out a soft gasp of pain; it had just been a week and his wound wasn’t quite healed yet. Agapetos drew back in alarm.

“Patroclus? Patroclus, what’s wrong?”

Patroclus shook his head and grinned. “Nothing. I’m alright, just a small injury. I’m fine.”

Polarius, who had hung back for the moment, stepped forward and dipped his head gruffly in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Patroclus.” But his eyes looked tired. “Wish you would’ve come a month or two earlier. Let’s go to the gardens.” He glanced at Agapetos. “I’d like a few words with him alone.”

Agapetos nodded and withdrew.

Patroclus frowned as Polarius lead him outside. “What’s wrong?”

The old man sighed, but didn’t answer until they were in the gardens. He sighed again and turned to face Patroclus. “It’s your father.”

“My father? What about him?” Patroclus’s voice was guarded; he still hadn’t forgiven him for killing Briseis.

Polarius ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. “I don’t know how else to say this except directly. He…he passed, Patroclus. At the beginning of March.”

Patroclus felt his heart skip a beat. “He…he’s dead?”

“Yes, Patroclus. I’m sorry. He passed quietly, in his sleep. He did not suffer.”

Patroclus wasn’t sure what he felt. For all his anger and resentment, Menoitius had been his father, and he had been a good king. He had cared for him, in his own way. But he had put Briseis to death; even though he had not been the one to pronounce the sentence, he had done nothing to try and change it, had refused to listen to Patroclus when he said she had been innocent.

He had killed his best friend, and Patroclus couldn’t forgive him for that.

“So we have a new king,” Patroclus said.

“Yes. He is young, the son of Odysseus.”

“Odysseus has a son?” Patroclus frowned. “He never spoke of him.”

Polarius snorted. “Well, it was not like you talked to the man or anyone on the court on a regular basis,” he said wryly. “You hated him, and he didn’t think much better of you, if I remember correctly. His son is seventeen now, and your father had been training him for kingship ever since you left for Skyros. He’s going to be married soon.” He sighed. “Your father never knew you returned, you know. I found all the servants who had accompanied you on the way back and told them to keep their mouths shut, or I’d find a way to slip some deadly poison into their soups some day at dinner. Still, I wish you could think better of him.”

“He killed Briseis,” Patroclus snapped.

“I know. And I know you will say you will never forgive him. But…think about it, Patroclus. Try. He is your father, after all.”

“In time, perhaps,” Patroclus said.

But he would make no promises.

 

 

Patroclus spent the rest of the day talking to Polarius and Agapetos and had returned to the forest by nightfall. Achilles didn’t ask any questions, and Patroclus didn’t say anything.

“It’s like the first time, you know,” Achilles mused as they walked back to the cave for the night.

“The first time? You mean…?”

“Two thousand years ago. Except it was reversed. You only met my mother later after you arrived at Phthia, but I had been going to see her. I was the only reason she actually came to shore; she hated my father. And for the longest time, I was the only human she would see, so I would go alone. Every time I came back, you never asked any questions except for how she was doing.”

“I’m hardly going to see my mother,” Patroclus muttered. “A grumpy old man is more like it.”

Achilles chuckled. “Even so. Reminds me of the old days.”

Patroclus looked at him, frowning. “Do you…do you miss it?” he asked hesitantly.

Achilles glanced at him; a flash of green. “Miss it? Of course I miss it,” he said quietly. “I miss you every time. But I love you every time, too,” he added. “I love you more and more and more.”

“Well that’s…good, I guess,” Patroclus murmured.

The smile Achilles gave him lit up the sky.

 

 

Patroclus was still healing when they went back to the lake the next week; the surface of the wound had closed and he could walk and sometimes run slowly if it was a good day, but that was about it. He brought his spear to go fishing as they needed more meat and fishing required the least movement, and he and Achilles crouched on the small rock ledge. It was late May, almost June, and the sun was warm on his skin, warm enough for the two of them to strip off their chitons and lay naked on the sun-heated rock, only their knives hanging from a belt at their waists and their bags slung around their shoulders and Achilles’s beautiful wooden fish around Patroclus’s neck.

Before long, a fat fish ventured near the rocky overhang, its sides flashing silver through the clear water. Patroclus had his spear, but he was content to lie back and watch Achilles do the work, and Achilles was content to let him. So he spread out on his stomach, folding his arms in front of him and using them as a pillow, turning his head to the side so he could watch Achilles.

Achilles was stretched out at the edge of the ledge, his muscles tense and holding him completely still as he looked over into the water, his spear raised and poised to strike. Patroclus smiled as the sun struck him, his golden skin seeming to shimmer and glow. A small breeze stirred his hair; the only movement from the golden statue.

The fish ventured closer, poking at the pebbles at the bottom of the lake. Achilles inched forward ever so slightly, and Patroclus could see the way his thighs quivered with tension, the way his green eyes narrowed with intensity, the way the muscles in his shoulders curved over ridges of bone.

He was exquisite. Patroclus never tired of his beauty.

The fish came closer and Achilles’s wrist flashed, almost white, as he thrust the spear forward, faster than Patroclus’s eyes could follow. His entire body followed the movement, his shoulders twisting to launch the spear, the muscles of his back flexing to support it. He struck like a snake, uncoiling and lashing out, and the spear entered the water with barely a splash. When it emerged again, there was a wriggling silver fish at its end.

Achilles withdrew, sitting up in one fluid motion and removing the spear from the fish’s body. Patroclus turned onto his side to watch him as he drew his knife from its sheath and began deftly descaling the fish. Its scales flew off of its body in flashes of silver and white, and when he was done, he slit open its belly and gutted it, throwing its guts back into the water for the other fish in the lake to eat; if he hadn’t caught it, some other fish would have, he’d told Patroclus years ago, the first time Patroclus had watched him prepare a fish. They should get part of what they would have gotten otherwise.

“We’ll be able to go swimming again once you’ve healed,” Achilles said presently, wrapping the fish’s body in a large leaf they had picked on their way there. They would cook the fish later once they returned to the cave, and the leaf would keep it fresh for longer and prevent it from spoiling.

“That would be nice,” Patroclus murmured, and touched his wound absentmindedly. He felt the ghost of Hector’s sword piercing his flesh again and shivered, pushing the memory away. Hector was dead, and the sun was bright and warm. It was no place for such thoughts.

“I did say I would never let Paris take you from me, did I not?” Achilles asked with a small smile, seeing him touch his wound.

“You did,” Patroclus said quietly.

“He hurt you, though,” Achilles murmured. “I said I would not let Paris take you from me, and in that, I kept my promise. But I also said he would not hurt you.” He looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Patroclus shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. We’re alive, and they’re dead. We don’t have to worry about them ever again.”

They sat in silence.

Achilles spoke again, several minutes later, and it was all light, as if darker subjects had never crossed their lips. “You have the deepest eyes I have ever seen. Full of secrets and shadows, as I told you once before, but gold in the sunlight. They say you cannot see the beauty in brown eyes until you fall in love with someone who has them.” He tilted his head, and his green eyes were bright. Catlike. For a moment, Patroclus saw him as he had seen him the first time. Feral. Predatory. Deadly. No matter how much Achilles spoke to him now, no matter how much Achilles touched him, that part of him would always be there. “I say they are wrong, for who could miss the beauty in yours?”

The corners of Patroclus’s lips curved into a smile. He always had a way with words, and Patroclus loved him, deadliness and all.

Achilles’s eyes were still on him, unashamedly trailing over his nakedness, taking him in. “Your hands are more beautiful than those of the best musicians in my youth,” he said, and he took one of them, tracing the veins, outlining the fingers and entangling them in his own. Patroclus felt the raw strength in his hands, the strength that was barely hidden behind the silk touches and delicate bones and soft petal veins. “I think you would make a better musician than any of them. They say half the performance is what you see, and that is something I agree with.” He flashed him a brilliant smile and kissed the tip of each of Patroclus’s fingers. “With you, you could make no sound and still be the best in the world.”

Patroclus blushed and sat up. “You embarrass me, Achilles.”

Achilles was still smiling. “I feel like I could sing for you, Patroclus,” he said. “My love for you would be made clear to everyone, and your beauty would inspire me. I could challenge Apollo to a contest with a lyre, and I would win.”

“Be careful of what you say about the gods,” Patroclus admonished him. “They don’t take very well to arrogance.” He frowned. “If they are even real anymore.”

“Who knows?” Achilles asked, shrugging. “My mother is long gone, that much I know. And the other gods, well, few believe in them anymore. Who knows if they were ever real?”

“But still,” Patroclus said. “In case they are, and in case they are like the legends. They don’t like arrogance.”

“Ah, what can they do to me?” Achilles laughed. “With you, I am invincible.” He leaned forward, and his eyes glittered with mischief and pride. “I killed a god, once,” he said softly. “Many years ago. At Troy, I killed a god. My love for you was such that Zeus feared it would change fate, make Troy fall before it was its time. So tell me, Patroclus, as long as you are by my side, what can the gods do to me?”

Patroclus couldn’t find anything to say.

Achilles straightened up again. “I was good, you know. At music. You would listen to me play, at my lessons. I used your mother’s lyre. I did not know it was your mother’s; it was part of what your father paid my father to raise you, and my father gave it to me. But even when I asked, you would never play, just listen.”

“Is that surprising?” Patroclus asked with a wry smile. “You are good at everything.” He paused. “I did not take you for a musician.”

“Because I am a warrior, is that it?” Achilles asked, not unkindly.

Patroclus ducked his head. “Yes,” he admitted.

Achilles let out a soft laugh. “Well, I have lived for over two thousand years, and just doing one thing gets tiring. Not that I’ve had a chance to play for many years, though.”

“Do you miss it? Playing, I mean.”

Achilles tilted his head. “Yes,” he said finally. “Yes, I do miss it, sometimes. It was part of my childhood, part of innocence. It was before I went to war, before I knew anything except young childish love and hope and dreams of glory, but still part of a time where I had you. Though that is not saying much, seeing as you entered my life when I was just ten. But I loved to play.”

Patroclus leaned forward. “Tell me more about it,” he whispered. “I have never learned before, not in this life, anyway. What is it like?”

Achilles shook his head with a smile. “It is difficult to describe if you have never experienced it,” he said. “Even now, it is different. Music changes over time. It is much more focused on the instrument itself now; in my childhood, it was supposed to accompany the voice. Though I do not think this is much of a bad thing. The instrument itself can produce beautiful sounds.”

“But what was it like? The musicians at the castle all looked so wonderfully happy when they performed. As if it was an escape for them, and they say nothing else makes them feel the same way.”

“It was an escape, in a way. It was a means of expression that nothing else could replicate.” Achilles tilted his head thoughtfully. “Even when there were words, they were expressive. And the music itself could be performed slightly differently to convey a certain feeling. The singers and storytellers were the best at it, of course; they had spent their entire lives perfecting the art and with one small change, an accent placed in one specific spot or a note drawn out to a certain length, they could shift your entire world.”

He broke off with a laugh. “Or perhaps that was just me. A dreamer, always, looking for glory.”

“No, not just a dreamer,” Patroclus said softly. “You _did_. Dreamers don’t do anything.” He shook his head and let out a quiet laugh. “My father used to call me a dreamer when I was very young. I would sit back and listen to the stories just like all the other children, but I did nothing to become the heroes in them. I was a dreamer, not a warrior.”

“You’re a healer,” Achilles said, and his voice was mild. “Anyway, who said being a dreamer was a bad thing? We cannot survive in a world of all warriors.” He gave Patroclus a crooked smile. “Most warriors are quite useless, really. I’ve learned that through the years. They fight, yes, but what can they do beyond that? It is no longer an age of battle, Patroclus. We do not need so many warriors anymore.”

“I can agree with that,” Patroclus murmured. He paused. “What happened? Why did you stop playing?”

Achilles laughed. “Well, there was Troy, of course! I couldn’t bring an instrument to war, especially not the beautiful one that belonged to your mother. And then things happened, things that were not so wonderful as music. Music had always been something bright and innocent and full of wonder and hope. It was part of my childhood and was something I associated with you, since you loved to watch me play so much, and I could not bear to play if you were not there. I did tell you it had been four hundred years since I saw you last.” His voice took on a wistful note. “I wonder if I would still remember, if I had a lyre in my hands now.”

Patroclus shifted closer. “You would remember,” he said seriously. “I heard that once you learn how to play, you never really forget. Music affects you that way.”

“I hope so,” Achilles said.

“Would you play now? If you could, would you?”

Achilles smiled at him. “You’re here, so why not?”

It was near June, and Achilles’s birthday was coming up within the next few days. Patroclus smiled to himself.

He knew what he was going to do.

 

 

He went back to Opus the day before Achilles’s birthday, telling Achilles that there was some business he had to tend to and to not wait for him. Achilles did not ask questions, for which Patroclus was glad; he wanted it to be a surprise.

He headed towards the medical building and asked for Polarius; the old man shuffled out a moment later with a frown and arched eyebrows; it was, quite frankly, his typical face.

“Well? Come back already?”

“Yes, I was wondering if I could borrow some money?”

Polarius hmphed. “I don’t assume you would be paying me back, seeing as I don’t suppose you’re actually earning any money for yourself right now, so it wouldn’t really be borrowing, if you’re going to be technical. I really have been wondering what you’ve been up to since you returned; you don’t live here, but there isn’t another city or town for many miles and you always leave here at nightfall, so you can’t be far.” He shook his head. “But I won’t ask; there must be a reason why you haven’t told me. How much do you need?”

Patroclus grinned. “Thank you, Polarius. Just enough to buy a good lyre; I hope that isn’t too much?”

Polarius raised a bushy white eyebrow. “A lyre? What, are you a musician now?” He shook his head again. “Alright, alright. Fortunately, I have enough to cover it. Your father paid me very well, you know. Come; I’ll get you your money.”

He stepped back inside to tell one of the nurses that he would be out for a while and then returned with a small bag. “This should cover it. Here, I’ll show you were the best lyres are, in case you don’t remember. The lyres are better now, too, if what the court musicians say is anything to go by. Hopefully you can find what you’re looking for.”

They went further up the city and into one of the busier streets before turning into one of the smaller, quieter streets that branched off of it. Polarius stopped in front of a large door, propped open in the early summer heat.

They stepped in. “Amphidamas?” Polarius called.

A moment later, a tall, wiry man stepped out from a back room. His eyes brightened as he saw Polarius, and he rushed forward and embraced him. “Polarius! It’s good to see you!” he exclaimed. “I was wondering when you would drop by to see me again. Getting busy down there with all the patients, eh?” He looked at Patroclus. “He saved my daughter’s life two years ago, you know. She was sick with something bad, but he fixed her up when none of the other healers could. It’s thanks to him that she lived to see her fifth birthday, and she’s turning seven next month.”

Polarius harrumphed. “I was just doing my job.”

“Well, I’m glad you do it well,” Amphidamas grinned. “I’d have her come say hello, but she’s somewhere out with her friends right now. But what can I do for you?”

Polarius gestured towards Patroclus. “It’s for him, actually. I’m just here to give you the money.”

Amphidamas laughed heartily. “In that case, I’ll give whatever it is to you for half. Oh, I know you earn more than enough to afford even the most expensive thing here, but what else can I do, eh? So what are you looking for?”

“A lyre,” Patroclus said. “The best one you have.”

Amphidamas’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, well, you’re going to have to narrow it down a bit; I have quite a few lyres of different styles and they are all quite good, if I may say so myself. What _exactly_ are you looking for?”

Patroclus blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. “Um. I guess one that’s in the oldest style you have? It’s for a…a friend. He likes the older ones.”

Amphidamas looked thoughtful, and he led Patroclus over to the far side of the room where three lyres stood on an elegant table. “These are the oldest style lyres I have. Unfortunately, I only have a few; no one uses them anymore, really, except for those up at the castle who are rich and have time enough for fancy history lessons, and unfortunately, they don’t always care to use the best instruments. I think they’ve been on the same one for a few generations, now, actually, and these have just been sitting here.”

“Tell me about it,” Patroclus muttered. He’d hated history, but mostly because the instruments they’d used to talk about the history of music had been worn down and not very well cared for. The modern lyres, oh yes, they had been beautiful. But never the older-style ones.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Patroclus said quickly. “How old are these styles?”

Amphidamas pointed to the lyre on the very left. It was beautiful and polished, made out of a glowing golden wood with elegantly shaped tuning pegs. “This is the oldest style that I make. It’s what would have been used nearly two thousand years ago.” He pointed at the middle one, its frame made out of a slightly darker wood. “From more recently, not quite fifteen hundred years ago. And this one,” he said, pointing at the one on the right. “Seven hundred years.”

Patroclus nodded at the lyre on the left. “I’ll take that one.”

Amphidamas beamed. “Wonderful! I’ve had that one sitting here for _ages_ without anyone showing any interest in it, even though it’s a beautiful instrument; I’m glad it’s found itself a new home.”

Polarius paid for the instrument and Amphidamas placed it carefully in a small but equally beautiful trunk, which Patroclus carried almost gingerly as he and Polarius said goodbye to the cheerful lyre-maker and headed back down the city.

“Thank you again,” Patroclus said as they reached the medical building. “Really. It means a lot.”

Polarius hmphed. “I’m only doing this because it’s you, Patroclus,” he grumbled. “Don’t go telling anyone else that I’m lending money out; I have a lot, but I don’t have enough to go around for everyone. Now go, get back to whoever that friend of yours is. Must be a good friend, if you’re willing to come all the way back here and ask a grumpy old man for money just to buy a lyre.”

Patroclus grinned, his hand reaching up to touch the wooden fish around his neck. “Yes. He is.”

He said goodbye to Polarius and went back into the forest, a spring in his step. He met Achilles back at the cave, noting the arched eyebrow at the small trunk. Patroclus set the trunk down in the corner.

“You’ll see what it is soon enough,” Patroclus told him.

 

 

Patroclus woke early the next morning when the sun was just peeking out from behind the horizon, coloring the sky pale pink behind wisps of clouds. It was the same color as Achilles’s eyelids, Patroclus thought with a smile. And there was a tinge of yellow in the sky as well; the same color that ran in streaks through his hair.

Achilles was like the dawn.

Patroclus leaned over and gave Achilles a quick kiss on the tip of his nose; the soft touch pulled him from his sleep and he sat up and yawned, blinking sleep from his eyes. He stretched, his muscles flexing and tendons pulling, grinning sleepily at Patroclus.

“Good morning,” Achilles mumbled.

“Good morning,” Patroclus said back cheerily.

Achilles’s smile widened into something a little mischievous, a little amused, a little nostalgic. “We touched each other for the first time today, two thousand years ago,” he said, effortlessly casual. “On Mount Pelion, when I turned sixteen. Birthday sex,” he added with a pointed glance in Patroclus’s direction.

“Are you hinting at something already?” Patroclus demanded. “You’ve just woken up!”

Achilles shrugged. His teeth flashed white.

Patroclus smirked and punched him playfully in the arm. “Later, you greedy walnut. It’s like you’re touch-starved or something, the way you act sometimes. Besides, there’s something I need to give you first.”

He stood and bounded over to the trunk, picking it up and carrying it over to set it down in front of Achilles. “Open it,” he said eagerly.

Achilles raised an eyebrow into a perfect arch. Deft fingers flipped the clasps holding the trunk closed and he opened it in one smooth moment, his eyes widening and his breath leaving him in a soft gasp as he saw the lyre sitting inside.

“Patroclus,” he whispered, looking up at him, his green eyes glowing.

Patroclus grinned. “Happy birthday!”

Achilles sat perfectly still for a moment, as if stunned, and then he carefully put the lyre back in the trunk and rushed forward towards Patroclus, embracing him tightly. Sandalwood and pomegranate filled Patroclus’s lungs.

Achilles drew back, and there was so much joy in his face that it was like the sun after a cloudy day, like the first drops of rain after a drought. He picked up the lyre again, turning it over and over in his hands, his fingers touching the polished wood like he still wasn’t sure if it was really there. He brushed one of the strings gently and an almost-note vibrated through the air, soft and yearning, sweet and delicate, begging to be heard.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “How did you get it?”

“You said you missed playing, and it was a simple thing to go back to Opus,” Patroclus said, and his heart swelled at the utter joy in Achilles’s face. “And, of course, I wanted to hear you. I wanted to hear what wonderful music I inspire you to make,” he added with a mischievous grin.

Achilles laughed, and the sound was like the singing of a creek, the love-call of a lark, the dancing of the grass in a summer wind. He leaned forward, and his eyes sparkled. “I challenge Apollo,” he whispered, and then his fingers touched the strings again.

The instrument hummed, notes hanging in the air like ripe figs waiting to be plucked from their branches, its tone silver and shimmering like stars sprinkled across a beautiful dark purple sky. They were just single notes right now as Achilles’s fingers brushed against one string and then another, getting accustomed to the feel of the instrument he hadn’t touched in so many years, an instrument that, despite the long time that had passed, responded to him and melted under his touch like it had been just yesterday since he parted from it.

And then he began to play a melody. It was halting at first, uncertain, but he grew more confident as the melody sang out and brightened the day and his fingers flew from one string to another with the ease of a fish through water. The notes weren’t just stars now; they were constellations, scattering themselves across the cave top with music so bright and wonderful that Patroclus could almost see it.

He began to sing, the rich timbre of his voice blending in with the light, birdlike sparkling of the lyre. He sang in a way that Patroclus didn’t recognize; it must have been from days long gone, from the days of Greece’s glory, from the days of legends and heroes, and his strange accent became stronger, as if he were singing the way he would’ve sung when he was still a child in Peleus’s courts. It was strange and beautiful in a way it could only be with Achilles, in a way it always was with Achilles.

The music swelled like a wave in the ocean, carrying Patroclus high and tall so he could look down on the glittering blue sea, Achilles’s voice mingling with the lyre like two birds courting each other through the air or two eagles locking talons and plummeting towards the earth, exhilarating and wild and breathtaking and beautiful.

His voice faded, and then all that was left was the glimmering magic of the lyre, its last notes trailing in the air, and then it was silence.

Patroclus didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe. He was afraid to break the silence.

It was a bird that did it, a small thrush that sat on a swaying branch just outside the entrance to the cave. Its voice rose in a trilling song, harsh compared to the warmth of the lyre and Achilles’s voice, and the spell was broken. Patroclus could breathe again.

“That was beautiful,” he whispered.

A faint flush of pleasure left a tinge of pink across Achilles’s cheeks as he set the lyre carefully back in the trunk. “For you.”

“You know,” Patroclus murmured, “I have never heard Apollo play. But I think you are right when you say you could challenge him and win.”

Achilles grinned. “Would you like to learn?”

Patroclus blinked, utterly stunned. “Learn? You mean learn how to play?”

“What else would I mean?”

Patroclus blinked again. “Oh.” He bit his lip. “But I could never be as good as you.”

“ _Patroclus_ ,” Achilles murmured, drawing his name out with a smile. “It doesn’t matter about what it sounds like to others. We are not storytellers or musicians. We play for ourselves, not for anyone else to hear. If you would like to learn, I will teach you.”

“Perhaps later,” Patroclus said. “We have many years. For now, I just want to listen to you.”

Achilles laughed. “Alright. But first, let’s eat. The figs looked to be almost ripe when I passed them yesterday and they should be good to eat now; would you like to come with me and see?”

Patroclus took his hand and stood. “Back to the old tree?” he asked. “The one you brought me figs from all those years ago?”

Achilles laughed again, the warmth of his joy radiating through his hand, causing Patroclus’s skin to tingle with pleasure. “Yes, Patroclus, that tree. Come! I am hungry.”

They went to the tree, and Patroclus reached for the fruit eagerly, grasping one and pulling it off its branch. It was a deep purple and very fat, with only a few tinges of green at its stalk and wrapping around its base. He held it to his nose and inhaled; its scent was thick and sweet.

He looked at Achilles and grinned, holding the fig out to him. “It’s your birthday,” he said.

Achilles took it and bit into it, watching Patroclus the entire time. Patroclus saw his eyes brighten as the sweetness filled his mouth.

“I juggled these for you, once,” he said when he had chewed and swallowed.

Patroclus laughed. “I know. You told me. You’ve probably done everything for me, once.” He pulled another fig off of the branch and took a bite, humming with pleasure as the taste flooded his tongue. “I’m surprised the birds haven’t got to all of them already,” he said, eyeing some of them gathered on the trees nearby, waiting for them to leave, waiting for their turn.

“There are plenty of fig trees,” Achilles said with a smile, picking the ripest figs and putting them into the bag hanging from his shoulder.

“And perhaps they knew to leave the best ones for the prince of the forest,” Patroclus laughed.

Achilles tilted his head, his eyes flashing with mischief. “Prince of the forest. I quite like that. Though I think I should be king.”

Patroclus snorted. “No, there can only ever be one king and that title is already taken.”

Achilles arched an eyebrow, a playful smile curling the corners of his lips. “Oh? By whom?”

Patroclus grinned, only giving him a second of warning with his mischievous smile before he leapt at him and tackled him to the ground, laughing, ignoring the occasional twinge of his still-healing wound, tangling their limbs together and pressing his forehead to Achilles’s. “By me, silly!”

Achilles leaned up and kissed him, his eyes glowing and his face flushed with happiness. “King Patroclus,” he whispered. “I like that even better.”

Patroclus blushed and buried his face in Achilles’s shoulder to hide it. He smelled like sandalwood and pomegranate and something like almonds, and when he kissed him again, he tasted like honey and sweetness and a little bit of fig.

He laughed. It was summer and Hector was gone and he was back from Skyros, and he and Achilles were going to be together until the end of his days.

 

 

They went to the lake that night. Achilles stripped off his chiton and stepped into the cool water; it was so still, save the small waves that lapped at his ankles, that it reflected the sky perfectly, and when Achilles stepped further in, it was like he was bathing in the stars.

He was like one of the gods, sitting up there in the sky, with only white pinpricks of light to show where he was.

“Come, Patroclus,” he called softly, holding out a hand to him. Patroclus let his own chiton fall from his shoulders and followed him in, feeling the cool, refreshing water against his toes, his ankles, his calves, his thighs, as he stepped further in. Every movement sent a small ripple across the surface of the lake, disturbing the stars, throwing them out of place, bringing constellations to life.

Achilles grinned as Patroclus approached, diving under with barely a splash and resurfacing several meters away, flipping his hair and sending water droplets flying.

Patroclus laughed and followed him. The clear water of the lake was turned black by night, but it was magical in its own way. He swam through the night, and all he could hear was the quiet laughter of the lake, the whisper of the breeze, the singing of the nightingales.

 

 

Patroclus lay on his back next to Achilles later that night, after they both emerged from the lake tired from swimming and glittering with water droplets. His left hand was in Achilles’s right, their fingers tangled together, and Achilles’s right foot rested gently across Patroclus’s left ankle.

“Look,” Patroclus whispered, pointing at a small cluster of five stars above them. “It’s the lyre. Fitting for today, is it not?” He turned to face Achilles, whose teeth flashed white in the darkness. Achilles was watching him, not the sky. He had seen that sky for two thousand years; he knew it already.

Patroclus looked back up. “And there’s the monstrous whale,” he said, pointing further to the left. He paused. “I’ve never seen a whale before, even when I crossed the sea.”

Achilles gave his hand a squeeze. “We will go to the ocean,” he promised, “and then you will see a whale.”

Patroclus’s grin widened. “And dolphins too,” he said. “Like the one in the sky. There.”

“Whales and dolphins,” Achilles said, still watching him. “You will see them all.”

“Whales and dolphins and eagles and serpents,” Patroclus said. His finger traced the scattering of smaller stars, ones with no names, who belonged to no constellations, wandering alone through the universe, and his finger stopped at another cluster nearby. “Look,” he laughed. “It’s Automedon.”

“The charioteer,” Achilles said.

Patroclus laughed again. “And it’s you, the hero. Of course, this one is named Perseus, but I think its name should be Achilles instead.”

Achilles’s lips were pressed against his shoulder, and Patroclus felt, more than saw, his smile.

“And then there’s that group of stars,” Patroclus said, as Achilles began sucking gentle kisses down his arm. “It’s not a constellation, not officially, but I always thought it looked rather like an owl. See? There are its eyes, there, with that group of stars making something like a circle. And then its horns, there, and the rest of its body. It’s flying, see? Flying through the universe.”

Achilles hummed, his lips sending faint vibrations through Patroclus’s body. His lips had moved onto Patroclus’s neck now, and his hand was resting gently on Patroclus’s thigh.

“But I like the twins,” Patroclus continued, his breath hitching ever so slightly as Achilles’s teeth caught on the sensitive skin just below his ear. “They remind me of us. Our souls, bound together through time.” He let out a soft laugh as Achilles nuzzled at him.

“My mother used to tell me the story of the crow,” Patroclus said, his voice getting tighter as Achilles’s hand began to move rhythmically there between his legs. “She said it was sent to get water but stopped to eat figs, but it had to wait for the figs to ripen, so it brought back a water snake and said it was the reason it was late.” He stopped and swallowed as Achilles sucked a bruise into his neck. “And as punishment, Apollo gave it a sore throat whenever the figs were ripe.” He let out a soft laugh, his voice shaky, Achilles’s hand ceaseless. “But that’s good for us, right? More figs for us.”

And that was all he could say. His back arched, and Achilles’s name passed his lips in a soft sigh, lost into the night.

 

 

Patroclus’s wound healed. It took a few more weeks for it to heal completely and for him to move without any pain, but eventually all it left was a small pink scar just under his ribs. He and Achilles went hunting again; it had been a while since they’d eaten anything other than rabbits and squirrels and other small game, and they both craved the meat of something bigger.

Patroclus was walking through the woods, his bow and an arrow already in hand. He saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye; Achilles stalked through the trees like a shadow in the darkening evening light, just a glint of his green eyes giving him away as something more. He used a spear, as always.

The stag they were stalking paused several hundred meters up ahead by a stream, its mighty head bowed to drink. Even though there were still a few months before the battles for the right to breed would begin, its antlers were already massive, the tines tipped white.

Patroclus stole closer, keeping his steps light, his bow ready. The stag, sated, straightened and leapt easily across the stream with its head held high, heading further into the forest. Patroclus leapt lightly out from the underbrush and followed it as it disappeared into the trees; he sensed Achilles circling around from the other side to head it off.

Patroclus followed the stag further into the forest, catching a glimpse of it behind a cluster of trees. He nocked his arrow and drew the string back, bringing his bow up, ready to release the arrow as soon as he had a clear shot. He stepped to the side, trying to get a better angle through the trees, and took a few more careful steps forward. The stag’s ears flicked and it stilled; Patroclus stopped, holding his breath, not wanting to do anything to tip it off.

And then Patroclus heard it. The sound of horses, and people, walking through the forest up ahead. A moment later the stag burst forward from the trees, its tail flashing white, its head held high as it leapt away.

Patroclus released the arrow only halfheartedly as it came into view, not even looking to see if it hit or not; his attention focused on what was quite frankly a parade of decidedly non-Opus citizens traveling through the woods. He caught a glimpse of a tall golden-haired woman sitting proudly on a spirited white stallion, its saddle and bridle gleaming with golden gems. It tossed its head and arched its neck, stepping high, knowing its place as the best stallion in the procession; clearly, the woman it was carrying was at the center of importance in the group.

Nearby, Achilles stepped out from the trees, a look of confusion on his face. “What’s going on?” he hissed, crouching down to avoid being seen as two gaudily-dressed young men galloped by on white horses a few meters ahead, ahead of the procession.

Patroclus shook his head slowly. “I don’t know…they look like royalty though.”

“What would a queen be doing going through the woods of Opus?” Achilles demanded. His grip tightened on his spear.

Patroclus drew a sharp breath. “No,” he whispered, realization dawning in his eyes. “No, not a queen. A princess.”

Achilles frowned. “A princess?”

“Opus has a new king,” he said softly. “The son of Odysseus. He was going to be married. Polarius told me when I went to see him a few weeks ago. This must be who he’s getting married to.”

A sharp cry ran out, and the entire line of horses was reigned to a halt.

“We will stop now for the night,” a distinctly male voice called, with a strange accent Patroclus had only heard once before from a traveler from Anatolia; the princess must be Anatolian. “We will travel the rest of the way to Opus tomorrow morning and meet the king.” Patroclus saw a flicker of movement as the man gestured towards several servants. “Thalia, Rhoda, Spyridon, go out and find a suitable place for the queen to rest tonight.” A moment later, three servants set out in three different directions.

Patroclus felt Achilles’s hand on his arm. “We should leave,” Achilles murmured.

But Patroclus had seen something. One of the servants. There was something familiar about her, but it was getting dark, and he had only caught a glimpse of her, and he couldn’t tell what it was. Something about the way she moved, perhaps, or the way her hair was combed behind her ears? He couldn’t place it. Someone he had seen at Opus, perhaps? She could have been sent by the king to guide his bride. But none of the names the man had uttered sounded familiar. She reminded him of…

No.

“Wait,” he said quietly.

Achilles’s eyes flashed. “We should avoid being seen,” he said. “It would not be wise to reveal ourselves to a princess’s guards, especially armed as we are.”

“No, I’m not going to let myself be seen,” Patroclus murmured, distractedly, still trying to keep the servant in sight. “I just…” He trailed off, still distracted. He took a few cautious steps forward to keep her in sight as she darted through the trees.

She moved like she knew the place, furthering Patroclus’s guess that she was someone he’d seen around at Opus. Her clothes hid her figure, but she seemed to be slim and graceful, quick and deft. Patroclus, and a reluctant Achilles, followed her as she kept going, finally emerging into a small clearing sheltered on one side with a fallen tree and a large boulder.

She seemed pleased by her discovery; she turned and darted back the way she had come.

“Thalia. Did you find anything?” the first man who had spoken asked.

“Yes,” Thalia said. “But Opus is near; we could reach it tonight.”

Patroclus felt his heart skip a beat when she spoke.

He knew that voice.

It was…

But it couldn’t be. It was impossible.

“We will stay here,” the man said. “The princess should be welcomed with the light of dawn, and so we will wait until tomorrow. Now, lead us to what you have found.”

Patroclus followed the procession as the servant lead the way to the clearing. He knew her. He didn’t know who else it could be, even though what he thought couldn’t possibly be right, it couldn’t possibly be…

But could it? He had only been going off of words, after all. He had not seen it.

Once the princess was settled down, the servant was sent out to find fresh water for her. Patroclus took a deep breath. He couldn’t possibly be right. He was just hoping, just seeing things where nothing existed. But he had to be sure.

The servant was walking in his direction. She was alone, and far enough away from the others that if he confronted her, quietly, no one would hear.

“Patroclus,” Achilles hissed, as she kept walking towards him and Patroclus didn’t move.

“ _Patroclus_ ,” Achilles repeated, louder.

The servant’s steps faltered, and she looked around for the source of the whisper. Patroclus’s breath was caught in his throat. He felt like his heart had stopped beating altogether.

Achilles was at his side, his hand on his arm, pulling him away, but Patroclus couldn’t move, because he had seen her face. But no, it was impossible, it couldn’t be, she was _dead_ …

But she looked towards him again, and Patroclus’s heart leapt, because by some miracle, by some gift of the gods, _somehow_ , he had been wrong. He was wrong, and being wrong had never felt so wonderful, so exhilarating, so full of an inexplicable _hope_. Because he would know that face anywhere, would know that shoulder-length brown hair and that one strand she could never keep back, would know those scattering of freckles like he knew the constellations, would know those bright, laughing hazel eyes.

He stood, and she saw him, and he saw her.

A smile, foolish and giddy and confused but dazzlingly bright, spread itself across his face.

“Hello, Briseis,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,  
> Love like you'll never be hurt,  
> Sing like there's nobody listening,  
> And live like it's heaven on earth.”  
> ― William W. Purkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to update this! Hope you guys like the ending

 

 

Briseis walked cautiously towards him, blinking several times as if she wasn’t sure whether he was really there. “Patroclus,” she said slowly, softly. “Patroclus, is that…is that you?”

“ _You’re_ one to talk,” Patroclus said, still slightly breathless, still stunned that she was here standing in front of him. “I thought you were dead!”

Briseis ducked her head. “Yes, well…that’s kind of a long story.” She reached out a hand hesitantly, brushing her fingertips against his cheek, making sure he was tangible, not just something her mind had conjured up. “You’re here,” she breathed, and then she flung herself at him and her arms were around him, squeezing him tight in a hug. “It’s really you.” Her eyes glanced over his shoulder to where Achilles stood, his eyes wary, and then returned to Patroclus’s face. “How on earth did you get back from Skyros? I thought your father was sending you there for good?”

Patroclus huffed a laugh. He felt dizzy with happiness and astonishment. “That’s also a long story. Do you have time?”

Briseis released him and bit her lip, glancing behind her in the direction the princess had settled down for the night. “I will in a bit. I need to get water for the princess, but once I’m done for the night I’ll come back.” She paused. “Will you…you’ll be here, right?”

“I’ll be here,” Patroclus promised.

Briseis flashed him a smile. It was the same smile as ever, with the crinkles in the corners of her eyes, the childish happiness radiating out from her in every direction, even though she was eight years older now. “I won’t be long.” She turned towards the stream, her gaze lingering as if she didn’t want to lose sight of him, as if he would vanish as soon as she turned away, as if she knew Patroclus felt the same way about her.

He didn’t vanish. He sat down on a small log and waited for her as she brought fresh water for the princess and, finished with her duties for the night, was dismissed to go sleep with the rest of the servants.

She didn’t go sleep with the rest of the servants, of course. She came back to Patroclus, her eyes shining and her face bright with joy.

Patroclus turned to Achilles, for just a moment. He didn’t need to say anything, but Achilles understood. He dipped his head and melted back into the forest. He would wait for Patroclus, just out of earshot to give him and Briseis some privacy, but close enough to hear if anything went wrong.

“Patroclus,” Briseis whispered again. Her smile lit up the sky.

It felt like a dream, and Patroclus had to pinch himself to remind himself that it was real. It was Briseis. She was alive. She was here, sitting beside him.

“You were dead,” he said.

Briseis shook her head with a small laugh. “No. I was supposed to be, to everyone else. It’s what Ajax wanted for me, of course, which is understandable, considering what I had supposedly done. If I had been in that position, if I had lost a child, I would want the killer to be punished, too.”

“But you were innocent,” Patroclus interrupted.

“Yes, but that’s beside the point. It was Polarius,” Briseis said earnestly. “Polarius saved me. He knew your father couldn’t officially pardon me or lighten the sentence since who knows what Ajax would’ve done in retaliation and he knew that if your father found out he would be put to death or exiled at best, but he told me, just before we left, that he knew how much I had meant to you, so he spared my life.”

“Polarius?” Patroclus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Polarius had listened to him. He’d believed him about her innocence, and he’d seen how much she had meant to him. He’d saved her.

“Yes. For you, he was willing to defy the court and spare my life.”

“Polarius saved you,” Patroclus whispered, and his fists clenched. “For eight years, I thought you were dead, but you weren’t. You were alive. Eight years, Briseis!”

Briseis took his hand gently. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” she said quietly. “He said it would be best for no one to know. He didn’t want word getting out, which makes sense, I suppose; Opus had lost a prince to Skyros, and its king was old, and as far as everyone else knew, there was not yet an heir. If anyone else had heard that a healer defied his king, they would’ve seen him as weak or unjust. He had to keep appearances up, for your father’s sake. And then there’s the obvious part that he needed to protect himself. He may be Opus’s best healer, but even healers have to listen to the court and the king.”

Patroclus shook his head in wonder. “He saved you,” he whispered. He turned to face Briseis and looked deep into her eyes. “Tell me everything,” he said. “I want to know how he saved you without Ajax or my father or anyone else finding out. Without _me_ finding out.”

Briseis took a deep breath. “Alright,” she said, and began.

“You already know how they took me away for the execution, so I’ll start right after that. You know how executions happen in separate rooms? As in, not in the cells were prisoners are originally held. Anyway, after they took me away we ran into Polarius, who said that it was to be a private execution. He said that he knew I was a good friend of yours, and he didn’t feel like the rest of the city should be allowed to watch, and that for you, I was going to have a private execution instead of a public one. He didn’t want me to be humiliated, even though I was supposedly a murderer and a thief and all that. The guards didn’t question it; I guess they trusted Opus’s best healer enough not to.

“I didn’t know the real reason for getting my own private execution room, of course, and the guards seemed quite unhappy about it even though they listened. They probably wanted to watch the public execution of a murderer and a thief, and even though I knew I was innocent, I guess I could understand, considering Chileus…well, innocent in terms of murder, anyway. You know I steal a few small things here and there, but that’s not the point.

“Anyway, they handed me over to Polarius after he yelled at them a bit about how they didn’t need to worry about him since he might be an old man but I was just a frail girl, and when I went into the room expecting it to be some big scary man to execute me, it was just two servants standing there. They were supposed to go with you to Skyros, actually, and I was really confused because I’d seen them helping you put your stuff onto the ship and for a moment I thought that maybe your father had changed his mind and was sending me to Skyros, but then Polarius said that your father didn’t know about this and he was sneaking me off to Anatolia. We, as in me and the two servants. But it wasn’t just two servants; there were a few more as well, he just couldn’t have a bunch of servants suddenly walking into a private execution room since that would look suspicious.

“But I was so grateful, Patroclus, even though I wouldn’t be going to Skyros. I figured that even if I were sent all the way to Anatolia, perhaps someday I would be able to get on a ship and visit you there; I’d heard that the princess was very kind, and I hoped to win her good favor soon. Her name is Iphigenia, by the way, and she really did live up to what I’d heard. But I didn’t understand why he would send a convicted murderer and thief to the princess of Anatolia, so I asked him. I asked him why he was sparing my life even though he thought I was guilty.

“And that’s when he told me that he was doing it for you. Remember how I said that just before I left, he told me that he knew how much I meant to you and that was why he spared my life? Well, that’s basically what happened. Of course, knowing your apprentice is best friends with someone isn’t enough to spare their life if they’re a convicted murderer, but there was something in his expression, Patroclus, something that told me that he believed you. He thought about you and trusted your instincts, trusted you, when you said that I was innocent and would never do something like that. So he defied the court’s ruling and sentence and his king, and told me that even though _he_ was willing to let me go, not everyone else would, and that was why I should go to Anatolia.

“But I had to get to Anatolia first, and that meant I had to escape from Opus, and that meant I had to get out of the city walls without being caught, for my sake and for Polarius’s sake and for your father’s sake, in terms of image and reputation and all that. I had to lie down on a wooden board and then the servants wrapped me up in cloth to make it look like I was dead, and then they carried me out. We ran into a guard on the way out and I swear my heart almost stopped, I was so scared, but I guess I was convincing enough in pretending to be dead because he didn’t ask any questions, and as soon as we were out of sight they put me down and we were able to escape. People in the lower city wouldn’t recognize me, especially if I had a hood on or something, so as long as we stayed out of sight of anyone in the castle we would get out safely.

“And we did. We made it out of the city to the edge of the forest where there were horses and other servants already waiting for us, as well as one of Polarius’s other apprentices dressed as a guard who he sent with us to give Iphigenia the message that we were gifts from Opus. The boy was very loyal, of course; Polarius wouldn’t send someone with us who he thought might betray him, and he didn’t ask any questions when he saw me, and he never told anyone in Anatolia that I had been convicted for murder and thievery. I think he figured that if Polarius was letting me go, he must believe I was innocent, and that was good enough for him.

“Anyway, I said that we were supposed to go to Anatolia as gifts from Opus, and that boy disguised as a guard was supposed to be the one presenting us to the princess. I was presented as Thalia instead of Briseis, on Polarius’s request in case someone from Opus happened to travel to Anatolia and recognized me. He didn’t ask for anything in return for Opus’s gift, but I think they assumed that Opus wanted her to be its queen eventually, considering what’s happening now. I’m not really sure; I’m just a lowly servant, after all, and we weren’t allowed into the room while negotiations were taking place. But either way, that’s what happened, and that’s how I ended up safely in Anatolia, and I guess I was right about what Anatolia assumed we wanted in return since we’ve come back for the wedding.”

Patroclus blinked. “Wait. So you’ve come back for the wedding,” he repeated. “Iphigenia is getting married to Opus’s king, and you’re Iphigenia’s servant. So does that mean…?”

“I’m staying,” Briseis said, and her eyes glowed, her face flushed with happiness. “I’m coming back to Opus, forever.”

“But…but Ajax, if he sees you…”

Briseis shook her head. “It’s alright. I forgot to tell you; two years after I left, the person who was really responsible came forward and turned themselves in. I don’t know who it was, since all I got was a letter from Polarius saying that I was cleared of all charges – posthumously, of course – and was free to come back. They all know I’m innocent.”

Patroclus frowned. “But if they see you? They’ll know you weren’t actually put to death eight years ago.”

Briseis shrugged, her eyes sparking with mischief. “I’ll just say I was her twin or something, and we were separated at a very young age. Briseis was sent to Opus, and Thalia was sent to Anatolia with her mother, who told her about Briseis. No one can prove me wrong, and since I’m now officially innocent, no one would care to, even Ajax.”

Patroclus felt a smile tugging at his features. “So you’re…you’re here to stay. Forever.”

Briseis’s teeth flashed. “Yes.” Her smile faltered and she looked at him closely. “But you’re not.”

“No. Well, not in the city, anyway. I’m staying here in the forest with Achilles.”

“Staying _in_ the forest?” Briseis put a hand on his arm. “Why? Does no one know you’re back from Skyros?”

Patroclus bit his lip. “Uh, not…not really. Like I said, it’s a long story.”

Briseis crossed her arms, one eyebrow perfectly arched. “I have time.”

“It’s not just that though,” Patroclus said. “He’s immortal. It means he’s never going to change. Even if I did go back to Opus and even if he did want to come with me, we couldn’t stay for long. People would notice, and we’d have to leave anyway.” He shook his head. “Trust me, Briseis, it’s better if we stay here. And besides, it’s nice. It’s peaceful, and there’s nothing to worry about except for when we need to go hunting again. None of that court drama or telling you how you need to live your life. We can do whatever we want.”

Briseis sighed. “Alright, alright. I don’t know about not worrying about anything, winter seems like it’ll be pretty harsh, but I won’t question it, and you’re right; people would notice after some time if he never changed. But enough about that! I want to know how you got back from Skyros, even though you were supposed to stay there for the rest of your life, and how you got back without anyone else knowing, and _why_ you came back and didn’t tell anyone. And then you have to tell me about everything that’s happened with Achilles since you got back; I saw the way he looked at you, and I saw the way you looked at him. You’re… _closer_ , somehow.” She saw Patroclus’s blush and raised her eyebrows mischievously. “Closer in more ways than one, I would assume.”

“Shut up,” Patroclus mumbled, his cheeks hot.

“It’s alright,” Briseis said with a bright smile. “I’m not judging you. I’m just happy you’re happy.”

Patroclus grinned. “Remember when you warned me about him? You said you didn’t trust him, but you trusted me, and if I trusted him, that was enough for you.”

Briseis snorted. “Well, looks like we both had good judgment. I’m glad he didn’t kill you.”

“No,” Patroclus said with a fond smile in the direction Achilles had vanished back into the forest. “He would never. He saved my life, you know. Took a spear for me. And I know he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.”

Briseis sighed. “Well, I can’t really argue with that, now, can I? Fine, I’ll stop bothering you about how trustworthy he is, but I told you my story. Now it’s your turn.”

Patroclus huffed a laugh. “Alright. It’s not all fun and happy and perfect, but I’ll tell you.”

So he did. He skipped over some parts that she didn’t need to know about and rolled his eyes in fond exasperation when she let out an exclamation of shock as he told her about his sons, but he told her about Skyros, and then he told her about how he got back, and then he told her about Achilles.

 

 

Briseis was already gone by the time Patroclus woke up next to Achilles in the morning; distantly, he heard the heralding of the arrival of the princess to the city.

Achilles was already awake, as usual, his bright green eyes flashing with pleasure as his gaze met Patroclus’s. “Good morning,” he murmured with a smile.

Patroclus hummed happily and closed his eyes again, snuggling closer to Achilles. It was early, and he was still sleepy, and he saw nothing wrong with going back to bed for another few hours, especially if that meant he would be able to hold Achilles close and shelter in his warmth.

“Patroclus,” Achilles laughed quietly. “Wake up.”

Patroclus made a noise of dissent and buried his face tighter in Achilles’s chest.

Achilles laughed again. “Wake up, Patroclus. We have somewhere to go today, if you would like. And if you would wake up, since it is quite far.”

Patroclus opened one eye and looked up at him. “Go where?”

Achilles leaned down and pressed a kiss to Patroclus’s forehead. “I promised you that I would stay alive to take you to the ocean,” he murmured. “We could go today.”

Instantly, Patroclus was awake. He sat up excitedly. “Really?”

“Yes, really. But we need to leave soon if we are to make it there before dark; as I said, it’s quite far.”

“Alright, alright!” Patroclus kicked the covers off of himself and stood up, stretching and yawning hugely. “How long are we going to stay there?”

Achilles shrugged, getting up much more gracefully than Patroclus and leaning back down to bundle up the blanket and put it in a small bag which he slung over his shoulder. “Seeing as it’s a day’s journey away, I thought we could stay for a few days, at least. Or a few weeks, if that’s what you would prefer. Whatever you like, Patroclus.”

Patroclus flushed in pleasure. “We’ll go and decide when we get there. It’s not like we really have anywhere else to be, right?”

Achilles tilted his head, his eyes glinting in amusement. “No.”

Patroclus grinned at him. “We’ll go to the ocean,” he said, “and you’ll show me the whales and the dolphins and the fish.”

“Anything,” Achilles said. “Everything.”

 

 

The sun was once again low in the sky by the time Achilles told Patroclus it was only another few miles until they reached the craggy cliffs overlooking the sand and the sea.

“Have you been there before?” Patroclus asked. “Wait, that was a stupid question. Of course you have.”

Achilles let out a soft laugh, his eyes shining in the late afternoon light. “Yes, I have been to the ocean.”

“What’s it like?”

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “This is not your first time seeing the ocean, either.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes and gave him a shove. “I know, but that’s not the point. The point is I wanted _you_ to show me the ocean, not some random people on a ship on the way to the end of my life. I want you to tell me what the ocean is like. In your own words. Your words are beautiful.”

Achilles laughed again. “Alright. I have not been there in many years, but I will tell you what I remember from the last time I was there, though only a little bit, since I don’t want to spoil it.” His eyes dimmed as he looked back through years of memory.

“There is always the sound of thunder from the waves, and if you lie on the sand you can feel the ocean spray on your face, and you can feel the crashing of the waves shake your very soul. The water is bluer than the sky and yet so, so green, and you look out on the horizon and it looks like there is nothing else out there, ever. And the stars are different. The same stars, of course, but if you stand still and just watch…it looks like they’re falling towards the earth, but frozen in midair, and if you look for too long, it looks like the sky is a dome, with all the stars painted on the inside of it.” He glanced at Patroclus with a mischievous smile. “I won’t describe it too well, either. I still want you to be surprised.”

“When was the last time you came?”

“A few years before I first saw you,” Achilles answered. “When you were not here, when I was waiting for you to return, I would go back. It was always peaceful, and time seems to pass differently by the sea. I once intended to go for two weeks only to return and find that it had been two months, and the trees were already changing.”

“Two months? And you didn’t realize it?”

Achilles gave him a wry smile. “I am over two thousand years old, Patroclus, and there are millennia ahead of me. Two weeks, two months, two years, it’s just a blink, if I am not careful. They feel the same without something to remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”

“Mortality.”

“Oh.” Patroclus blinked and frowned. “So…so is my life…is that just a blink, too? Is that what it’s been, just a blink in your life? Or, rather, a few blinks, seeing as I’m apparently reborn again and again?”

Achilles stopped abruptly, and when Patroclus realized Achilles was no longer beside him he stopped too, turning back to face him.

“What?” he demanded. He couldn’t read Achilles’s expression. It was like a cloud had passed in front of the suns of his eyes, blocking their light, casting a shadow over the rest of his face. He stood completely still, like he was carved from marble the same way as the noble statues in Opus’s castle halls, except Achilles had two glittering emeralds for eyes and gold foil cast over his skin and the very sunlight woven into his hair.

“You would _never_ be just a blink in my life, Patroclus,” Achilles said quietly, seriously. “You are so much more than that. You are my reminder of mortality, my reminder of all the good that is still in the world, my reminder that I can still love and cherish the gifts I am given, including you. You are my life itself, and I am not alive in the years you are not with me.”

Patroclus swallowed, and his throat was suddenly very dry. “I’ll…I’ll try to come back sooner then,” he said hoarsely. “After I die. So you can live.”

Achilles walked forward slowly until he was standing in front of Patroclus. He raised a hand and cupped his cheek tenderly as he placed a gentle kiss on Patroclus’s lips, and his mouth tasted of honey, as sweet as the ambrosia of the gods. “Let us not speak of such things,” he murmured. “You have a long life ahead of you, and I would not speak of an end.”

 

 

There was a tang of salt in the air when Patroclus leapt lightly over a stream and breathed in. He grinned and skipped ahead a few steps before turning around to face Achilles again. His smile widened as he heard a distant, rhythmic roar. “Hurry, Achilles! I can hear the waves from here. They really do sound like thunder.”

Achilles caught up to him and Patroclus started running, his feet flying as he headed towards the ocean, excitement welling up and his pounding heart sending blood surging through his veins.

He emerged onto the craggy beach, his heart fluttering in his chest. He looked around at the ocean spread out in front of him like a giant blue rug, scattered with glittering red and orange and yellow gems as the water reflected the setting sun. The waves broke on the sand below, carrying white foam as if it were seabirds bobbing on the surface of the water, and the water was so clear that Patroclus could see to the bottom. Achilles stepped up beside him, and Patroclus turned to him, his eyes shining in delight.

“It’s beautiful,” he said softly. All memories of Skyros were wiped from his mind; it was like he was seeing the ocean for the first time again, and it was all the more beautiful with Achilles beside him. The sight of it whispered promises of wonder, hope, and infinite potential, not the sorrow and endless emptiness it had brought before.

Achilles’s fingers brushed against the back of his hand, and Patroclus reached out to grasp them, winding them with his own as the waves crashed against the shore.

“They always come back,” Achilles murmured. “The waves. They always come back to the shore.” He glanced at Patroclus, his eyes bright and green, like twin stars in the gold of his face. “Like you, I think. You always come back. I used to come here to remind myself of that when I was alone.”

“Hm.” The corner of Patroclus’s lips twitched in a small smile. He watched the ocean, watched the white foam spread itself over the white sand like clouds in a dawn sky before being pulled back into the sea by its relentless churning.

Achilles gave Patroclus’s hand a squeeze, and his eyes were playful. “Let’s go swimming,” he said.

“Swimming?” Patroclus’s eyes widened and he looked back at the ocean apprehensively. “In _that_? I’ll drown!”

Achilles laughed and pulled him down the cliff towards the sand. “You will not. I will be there.”

Patroclus bit his lip. He hadn’t been a strong swimmer before he’d left for Skyros, and it wasn’t like he’d had much opportunity to practice on the island either.

“it’s getting dark,” he said.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said, turning and looking deep into his eyes, an amused smile spreading across his face. “That is the most beautiful time of day. And I promise, I will be there.”

Achilles had never broken a promise.

“Okay,” Patroclus mumbled. “But it’s your fault if I drown.”

Achilles’s teeth flashed, and he turned and leapt down the cliff, his feet hitting the ground at the bottom and kicking up sand behind his heels as he ran towards the water. He was like a bird, the way he ran across the sand as if he could fly.

Patroclus descended much less gracefully, slipping awkwardly from one rock to another until he, too, reached the bottom. By now, Achilles had already removed the bag and his chiton and had discarded them on the beach, far enough from the water that the ocean wouldn’t be able to claim them. He stopped just at the edge of the water, letting the waves splash against his ankles, his naked skin gleaming in the sun like it was coated with oil.

Patroclus followed him uncertainly, stripping off his chiton and dropping it beside Achilles’s, stopping when he was beside him in the water. The water was colder and rougher than the water at the lake; the waves were bigger, stronger, more violent, and they churned up sand and rocks and bits of shell that stung his feet.

Achilles took another few steps in until the waves crashed against his thighs. He turned back to Patroclus, the spray clinging to his skin until he sparkled in the dying sunlight. There was so much history in his eyes, histories and memories and tangled thoughts.

“Come, Patroclus,” he said, holding his hand out to him.

Patroclus bit his lip and waded forward, flinching as the water beat against his legs.

He shook his head adamantly. “No way. I can’t swim in this.”

Achilles just laughed and pulled him forward. “I’m here, Patroclus. You have nothing to worry about.” He pointed towards the horizon. “There are dolphins already, look!”

Patroclus squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, something Achilles didn’t seem to need to do. He didn’t see anything at first, but then there was a splash in the distance, and a graceful gray body curved upwards out of the water, arching through the air before descending back down with another splash. Another gray body rose into the air, and another.

His heart leapt with them. “Dolphins!” he laughed.

Achilles’s smile lit up the sky. He turned and dove into the waves, disappearing beneath the pale green water and emerging a few meters away beyond the white crests, his hair now drenched and plastered against his face and neck, sunlight turned to liquid. A few drops of water clung to his eyelashes and the ends of his hair; he shook his head hard and they flew off around him in a glittering arc.

“Patroclus!” he called.

Patroclus took a deep breath. He waded forward a few more steps until the water was up to his chest, the splash from the waves reaching his face. It was cool, bordering on cold, but Achilles’s smile was warmth enough. The waves crashed again and he dove, swimming forward as far as he could with one breath to clear the waves before he surfaced again, blinking hard to clear water from his eyes, stinging from the salt.

Achilles was beside him as he emerged, spluttering, holding him steady. His eyes were warm.

“See?” he said softly. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Patroclus grinned, slightly awestruck. He was out beyond the waves; they crashed against the sand behind him. He looked around him in wonder, seeing fish darting in and out of the corals below him and white seabirds soaring and diving through the air above him.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Achilles said easily, and Patroclus blushed. He looked down into the water again to see a black and white striped fish swim along the edge of a coral, poking its head into the crevices every so often in search of food. A small red fish emerged, just barely longer than one of his toes, and chased the other fish away.

Patroclus laughed in surprise. “It’s so small,” he said in wonder as the black and white striped fish fled deeper into the ocean. “And it chased away something so much bigger than itself.”

“It’s defending its nest,” Achilles murmured. “Defending the most important thing in its life. It’s not so much different than what I would do for you.”

Patroclus blushed again. “You’ve already proven that,” he murmured.

Achilles tilted his head, his eyes bright. “As have you.”

“Let’s hope it never comes to that again,” Patroclus said softly. His gaze was drawn away as something flashed silver in the water; a white bird folded its wings and dove after it, entering the water like an arrow, bubbles streaming out behind it. When it emerged, bobbing on the surface of the water, there was a small fish in its beak.

Patroclus laughed, his eyes widening in amazement. “It swam like a fish,” he said.

Achilles looked amused. “Yes.”

“Like you,” Patroclus said.

“You will learn,” Achilles said, and his beauty was so alluring that if he had said he was one of the sirens in the legends, Patroclus would not have been surprised. He was truly the son of a sea-goddess; the water made him look even more alive, brought warmth and a pink rosiness to his cheeks, made him look like a god.

Patroclus looked out to the rest of the sea, treading water to stay afloat but content to let Achilles hold him steady. “It’s so blue,” he said quietly. “Even now in the sunset, it’s still so blue.”

“The sea may be light and blue, but it will always pale when compared to your brown eyes and dark skin.”

Patroclus snorted, his blush rising to his ears.

There was a playful glint in Achilles’s eyes. He was embarrassing Patroclus, and he knew it, and he liked it. “And the sound of the waves is calming and used to soothe me to sleep, but it will always sound discordant and rough compared to the sound of your voice.”

“ _Achilles_ ,” Patroclus said, utterly embarrassed.

Achilles just grinned at the reddening of his cheeks. “And further in the summer, the water becomes warm from the sunlight and the waves grow strong, but it will always feel cold and weak compared to your thighs around me.”

“Stop it,” Patroclus complained, his face and neck thoroughly red, ducking his head and pushing him away playfully.

Achilles laughed, refusing to be gotten rid of, leaning forward and kissing Patroclus’s cheek as Patroclus yelped and ducked beneath the surface of the water. Achilles chased him, eyes greener than the sea around him, catching his arm easily and pulling him back. Patroclus surfaced, shaking water from his hair and splashing water towards Achilles, but Achilles was unfazed.

“Get off, you absolute monster!”

Achilles laughed again. “Monster? Is that really what you think of me?” He drew back and spread his arms, reveling in his own beauty. “You think this is a monster? Tell me, do I have six heads like Scylla, or horns like a minotaur, or a single eye like a cyclops? Or do I have the golden skin of a god, the strength of a storm, the speed of the very wind itself?”

Patroclus sniffed in mock disdain. “You’re terrible, Achilles.”

Achilles swam forward and Patroclus let himself be caught in his arms, let Achilles cover his face and neck with kisses. “I am many things, but I most certainly am not terrible,” he murmured with a grin.

“You just like embarrassing me,” Patroclus said.

Achilles laughed and kissed the top of his head. “I just like loving you.”

Patroclus huffed, but this was one argument he couldn’t win, so he pulled Achilles towards him and kissed him, tasting his familiar honey mixed with the saltiness of the sea.

“Patroclus,” Achilles whispered against his lips, and his breath was cool and sweet.

Patroclus closed his eyes and tangled his fingers in Achilles’s golden hair, so soft that it felt like he was touching sunlight itself.

“I love you so much,” Achilles murmured, and his hands were warm and soft on Patroclus’s bare skin, his body hard with lean muscle and comforting as it fit neatly against Patroclus.

They returned to the beach, drenched and salty, eyes stinging and bodies dripping as they fell together onto the cooling sand under the setting sun and rising moon, tangling their limbs together and crashing their open mouths against each other, letting their breaths mingle in the air between them until there was no longer any air between them, just skin pressed against skin.

“Patroclus,” Achilles whispered again, but this time it was more of a gasp as Patroclus’s hand found its way between his legs, pulling gasps and moans and sighs from his pale, arched throat. He kissed Patroclus between the shudders of pleasure that shook his body, sucking bruises onto his chest, his neck, his own hands roaming.

Sand was everywhere. It got into Patroclus’s mouth and in between his legs and covered his wet body with harsh, grainy scratchiness, but it didn’t matter, not with Achilles’s chest pressed against his, not with Achilles’s mouth under his jaw, not with Achilles sheathed around him.

The moon rose, the sky darkened, and they made love under the stars.

 

 

“We would’ve been separated by this ocean,” Patroclus said afterwards, when they had cleaned the sand from their bodies and lay, dry, on the sand. The waves crashed behind them, ever the same, always coming back to the shore.

“We would’ve been,” Achilles said, “but we aren’t.”

Patroclus grinned and shifted closer to him, rolling over so his head was resting on Achilles’s shoulder and his left knee lay between Achilles’s thighs. Their bodies slotted together, Patroclus’s chin fitting neatly in the small dip where Achilles’s shoulder blended smoothly into the muscles of his chest, the ridges of his hips fitting into the soft dips of Achilles’s, their hands meeting so perfectly it was as if they were carved from the same piece of marble and only the thinnest knife had cut between them to shape them.

“I’m glad,” he murmured, nosing at the soft skin of Achilles neck under which his life’s blood rushed fast and hot. Achilles’s heat was comforting, and he was exhausted. In the distance, off on the horizon, a column of mist sprayed into the air, making a small rainbow under the moonlight.

Patroclus lifted his head off of Achilles’s shoulder tiredly, squinting as a fin, small to his eyes because of the distance, rose high into the air and then came back down on the water with a splash.

“A whale,” Achilles said, grinning at Patroclus’s look of wonder. “I’ve seen her around here before with her young. She likes these waters.”

Patroclus hummed happily and lay back down on Achilles, shifting so his ear was pressed to Achilles’s chest, over his heart. It thumped, slowly, surely, strong and steady.

“Patroclus?” Achilles asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as Patroclus closed his eyes and draped an arm over his waist, holding him close, snuggling against him as he let out a contented sigh. “I thought you wanted to see whales.”

“I do,” Patroclus murmured, his words slurring as he began to drift into sleep. “But I’m lying on top of you and it’s comfortable and I’m tired. The whales can wait.”

Achilles’s chest shook with his soft laugh. “Alright,” he said quietly. Patroclus felt him reach for the bag and pull out the blanket, which he draped over them. Then his arms were around Patroclus, one hand on his shoulder, the other stroking soothingly along Patroclus’s back and sides, lulling him to sleep.

The whales could wait.

 

 

Two days after they had arrived at the shore, the ocean had changed. Patroclus felt it as soon as he had woken up, and Achilles, already awake, was standing by the water’s edge, a frown on his face, his hair buffeted by the wind; it was cold, and a few raindrops were already falling from the sky. The ocean, which had been a brilliant blue-green up until this point, looked gray.

“Achilles?” Patroclus called, standing and blinking sleep from his eyes.

Achilles turned to him, and he looked troubled. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

Patroclus walked up next to him and crouched down to look at the water. It shimmered strangely, and when the water receded from the sand, it left behind what looked like flecks of gold, glittering in the sunlight.

“What is it?” he asked.

Achilles shook his head; his face glistened with raindrops. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He looked up at the horizon. “There’s a storm coming,” he said quietly. “A big one. This rain isn’t going to pass anytime soon. We should find shelter for the next few days, on higher ground.”

“We could go back?” Patroclus suggested.

“No. We wouldn’t make it before the storm hit, and I would rather _not_ be in the forest, surrounded by wood, while there is lightning in the air,” Achilles said with a wry smile. “I know a place higher up on the cliff. It should be good enough.”

Patroclus was still crouched by the water’s edge. “It looks like gold,” he said. “What would gold be doing in the ocean, especially like this?”

“I don’t know,” Achilles murmured. “But it can’t be good. My mother never told me about anything like this. She would have, if she had known of it. It wasn’t something she had ever seen, either.”

Patroclus felt a shiver run down his spine, and he stood, taking Achilles’s hand. “Where is that place you said you knew?” The wind had picked up, tangling the folds of his chiton around his legs, and shelter sounded like a wonderful idea.

Achilles gave him a faint smile and lead him towards the craggy rocks. “Up here. Follow me.”

He turned and led Patroclus up the cliff and then took a sharp right towards where more rocky cliffs rose even higher, and then stepped into a small crevice in the rocks. It was the entrance to a small, winding passage that wove slightly uphill for a few hundred feet before it opened into a small cliff. It was completely dark, save for a bit of light that streamed in from a crack in the cave wall; a few drops of rain dripped in from the crack and trickled down the cave wall into a shallow dip where it had eroded the rock away in past storms.

“It’s not much,” Achilles admitted. “I hadn’t counted on a storm while we were here. But it should keep out most of the wind and rain, and it’s too high for even the largest waves to reach.”

Patroclus nodded and settled down in the corner furthest from the cracks. It was a little drafty, but it was better than being out in the open. He pulled the blanket out of the bag and wrapped it around himself before he reached back into the bag and took out some of the dried fruit they had brought.

“Good thing we didn’t plan on hunting for a few days,” he murmured with a small smile.

Achilles came and sat down next to him, crossing his legs under him gracefully. “The air is nicest after a storm,” he said. “I will be glad when it passes.”

Patroclus took a bite of dried fig before holding it out for Achilles. Achilles took a small bite and then shifted closer to Patroclus, is body folding in and fitting into Patroclus’s. He rested his head on Patroclus’s chest, listening to his breath, taking Patroclus’s free hand in his own. Patroclus hummed as Achilles’s fingers traced his bones, outlining tendons and shaping fingertips.

“You’re beautiful,” Achilles murmured, and Patroclus draped the corner of the blanket around his shoulders, letting his chin droop forward onto the top of Achilles’s head.

Outside, the wind picked up. Patroclus heard it howling through the trees above them at the edge of the forest, heard the rain lashing at the stone around them, and through the crack in the cave wall he could see the air outside blur and turn gray. The ocean disappeared, and thunder rumbled overhead, drowning out the roar of the ocean.

Patroclus shivered and wrapped his arms around Achilles. The warmth of their bodies seeped into each other and the cold and rain outside didn’t matter; they were tangled together and for a moment, Patroclus felt like nothing could ever separate them, not even death.

 

 

The storm passed four days later. It had washed away the gold but had left behind an enormous mound of sand instead, spreading for miles over the shore. Waves spilled over it from time to time, leaving fish to flop helplessly on the sand or crabs to skitter back towards the ocean. They had run out of food and Achilles had gone out to hunt, leaving Patroclus to wander the shore.

He followed the mound of sand along the shore until it tapered to an end, revealing the blue-green ocean beyond, and then he stopped.

There was a man standing by the water’s edge, and he turned as Patroclus emerged from beyond the sand. Patroclus’s eyes widened. No, not a man. No man looked like this, with silver hair that looked like it was nothing more than mist, woven into curls that moved even without wind. No man had skin like pale, translucent porcelain stretched over ridges of bone and yet looked so powerful, so strong. No man had those black, black eyes.

It was a god.

Patroclus felt his heart miss several beats, and he froze. The god’s fingers twitched, the subtlest of movements that anyone who had not lived with Achilles might have missed, and a stiff wind picked up, carrying away the mound of sand beside him until it was nothing.

“Patroclus,” the god said.

Patroclus could not move. His thoughts flashed back to when Achilles had boasted of being able to out-play Apollo himself with the lyre; was this Apollo, accepting the challenge? Or was this Apollo, coming to punish Achilles for his arrogance?

As if the god could read Patroclus’s mind, the corners of his mouth turned downwards in disapproval. The wind shifted, and the scent of cypress met Patroclus’s nose.

No, not Apollo.

Patroclus stiffened. “Hades,” he said.

The god nodded once, slowly.

Hades. Patroclus was surprised; Hades was as pale as he had imagined he would be, but he wasn’t dark-haired, wasn’t accompanied by a dark cloud. No, the ruler of death and riches was timeless and elegant, clean and chiseled, and his grace and richness was in the way he moved, the fabric of the cloth draped over his shoulders.

Patroclus’s mouth was dry. “I…I didn’t think…”

“You did not think we still existed?” The god’s voice was sharp and harsh, lashing out like a whip and cutting through the air with ease, but there was no malice in his words.

Patroclus swallowed and shook his head stiffly. “No.”

Something like amusement flickered in the Hades’s eyes. “You would be correct, in most cases,” he mused, and then his voice was almost melodic, hypnotizing, in its gentleness. “Most of the old gods are dead. People stopped believing, and they just faded away. Apollo, Artemis, even Poseidon,” he said, with a nod at where the sand had once stood. There was sorrow in his eyes.

“That was Poseidon?” Patroclus asked. His voice was barely more than a gasp.

Hades inclined his head.

Patroclus thought about the gold flecks in the sea. Gods had golden blood, rich ichor that flowed through their veins, strengthened by the sweet ambrosia they drank in the skies. If Poseidon was indeed dead, the gold must have been his blood, and the storm must have been the aftermath of it.

“Are they…are their souls…?”

“With me,” Hades said, and his eyes flickered like there was fire behind them. Fires of Tartarus, perhaps; gods were never all in one place all at once, after all. “Like Achilles’s will never be.”

Patroclus felt a pang in his heart. “Why?”

Hades’s head tilted; a gesture so like Achilles that Patroclus was taken aback. It was the movement of a god, he realized. Quick, subtle, feral. A reminder that they were unbound by any of the laws of the world.

“Surely you must know,” Hades said with a grin. His teeth were sharp.

“I know that he is immortal, yes,” Patroclus said, his voice hoarse with the dryness of his throat. “But I do not know why he is immortal, other than that the gods made it that way.”

Hades’s grin widened. “Artemis,” he said. “And her brother Apollo. It is what they wished.”

“But _why_?” Patroclus demanded.

“Troy,” Hades said simply. Patroclus just stared at him dumbly, unable to understand the connection, so the god spoke again. “Achilles was the hero of the Greeks, but the twins loved Troy. When Troy fell, they were angry, and they wanted to punish him. But they needed to give; they had lost, after all, and those who lose the war cannot get everything they wish, even if they are gods. So they made an agreement. A…compromise, if you will. They granted his wish by making a deal with me. Achilles wanted to be immortalized in legends and stories, so they gave him immortality as he wished, just not necessarily in the way he had hoped for. And as for you, they allowed you to return to him, but each time, you would never remember.”

The gifts of the gods always have an edge, Patroclus thought.

“But they’re dead,” Patroclus said. “They’re all dead, or going to be soon. Why couldn’t they give him the peace that he deserves?”

“Because they do not have that power,” Hades said. “I rule the dead, but you, I only rule halfway. And Achilles I never rule at all. I agreed that I wouldn’t take your souls.”

“But they’re _dead_ ,” Patroclus insisted.

“They are,” Hades conceded.

Patroclus bit his lip. “Why are you still here?”

Hades gave him a wry smile, his sharp teeth flashing. “Will people ever stop believing in death? What about the afterlife? They all need something to comfort them when they’re dying. They all need to believe there’s something afterwards. That is why I am still here, although my name may change.”

That was something Patroclus couldn’t argue with.

“If they are dead, why must you still honor the agreement?” he asked instead. “If they are dead, their souls have no power anymore. Make him mortal, if that’s what he truly wants. I don’t care about myself; if I don’t remember, there’s no harm, right? I just…he wants to be mortal. He’s told me before; that’s his greatest wish.”

“Why?”

It was a simple question, but Patroclus couldn’t find a good answer.

_If I had the chance to become mortal, I would take it in an instant._

_I want to be mortal. That is my greatest wish. To be mortal and grow old with you._

Patroclus opened his mouth, struggling for words. “He…he wants to spend the rest of his life with me,” he said finally.

Hades watched him for a long moment. “Love is a curious thing,” he said, sounding almost bored. “You mortals think it’s enough for promises to be made and broken, for gifts to be given and taken back. But it is not; it is a weakness. I will not do it.” He turned and began to walk away.

“Wait!”

Hades stopped.

Patroclus’s heart pounded in his chest. Gods cared about honor and glory, and Achilles had plenty of that. He had brought Troy to its knees in the height of its glory and left it behind him in the dust, in ruins. “He is _Aristos Achaion_ ,” he said. “Surely the best of the Greeks deserves something better than immortality, better than being able to do nothing as everyone he loves dies around him? You grieve for Poseidon, I know it.” Anger flashed in Hades’s dark eyes, but Patroclus ignored it. “You scorn love, but you loved him nevertheless. This loss is what Achilles has to face, over and over again, until the end of time. Would you leave the best of the Greeks to this fate?”

The anger in Hades’s eyes was replaced by amusement. “He is not _Aristos Achaion_ ,” he said. “You are.”

And then he vanished.

Patroclus stood, utterly frozen. Hades’s words echoed in his ears. _He is not Aristos Achaion. You are._ He couldn’t move. It was a mistake. It had to have been a mistake. He wasn’t _Aristos Achaion_ , that was Achilles. There was no way he, of all people, could be the best of the Greeks. He was a father’s disappointing son, a man who could never be a warrior, a prince who had left his people and who could never bring them glory. All he could do was love Achilles.

Achilles was the one who had killed a god. He was the one who could bring Greece down singlehandedly if he wanted to.

But gods never made mistakes.

 

 

Patroclus didn’t tell Achilles about his meeting with Hades. They went back home. Patroclus went back to Opus in the morning; there was something he needed to do.

He went to the medical building and asked for Polarius and was directed up to the castle, where he was supposedly tending to Odysseus; he was old now, and had fallen ill. He didn’t seem to have many days left, and his son would have him die as peacefully and comfortably as possible.

Patroclus wandered through the castle, revisiting old haunts, smiling as he saw familiar faces – older, but still familiar. Briseis was among them, cheerfully chatting away with some of the other servants as she brought what he assumed were Queen Iphigenia’s clothes to wash. He didn’t disturb her. He stayed in the shadows instead to avoid being seen, only approaching one servant to go to Odysseus’s rooms and tell Polarius an old friend was waiting for him by the entrance, and then he stepped back and waited.

Polarius appeared a few minutes later from the direction of what Patroclus assumed to be Odysseus’s chambers. “Patroclus,” he greeted gruffly.

Patroclus looked him deep in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said seriously.

Polarius raised a bushy eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for this time, but I won’t refuse a free show of gratitude.”

Patroclus glanced behind him to where Briseis was returning with what was now an empty basket, feeling a small smile spread over his face. Polarius followed his gaze, his eyes widening in comprehension.

“I know,” Patroclus said. “I met her when she was coming with the queen. She told me.”

“Ah. Well, you know I couldn’t let an innocent life be taken,” Polarius mumbled, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t let you know. It would’ve saved you a lot of grief.”

Patroclus shook his head with a smile. “No, I understand. It was necessary. You saved her, and for that I will be forever grateful.”

 

 

Three more years passed in the forest with Achilles, and one fall afternoon, as they sat by the red roses eating the last of the year’s fresh figs and honey, watching the fish jumping in the lake, Achilles turned to him and frowned.

“Patroclus,” he said. “I have a question, something that I’ve been meaning to ask for a few years.”

Patroclus paused, his mouth full of fig, waiting for Achilles to continue.

“When we went to the ocean,” he began, and then broke off, huffing a laugh and shaking his head, looking down and picking at the grass. “No, it’s impossible.”

Patroclus swallowed his mouthful. “What is it?”

Achilles bit his lip. “It was after the storm passed. I…I thought I saw Hades, but I…I must have imagined it. I have to have imagined it, there’s no way he would…”

Patroclus felt like his heart had stopped. “You saw Hades?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I knew it had to be impossible,” Achilles murmured, shaking his head. “It was too good to be true, it had to be just my imagination.”

“No,” Patroclus said softly. “No, Achilles. Tell me, even if it was just your imagination.”

A soft smile spread across Achilles’s face. “I…I imagined that he made me mortal. He appeared and said that _Aristos Achaion_ had asked it of him, so he would give him this gift. This gift, with no edges this time, just mortality. He said that…he said that _Aristos Achaion_ had made him see that life without the ones you love is a life not worth living.”

Hope blossomed in Patroclus’s chest, filling his heart and then his veins until it thrummed deep through his body, spreading like a vine. “And then what?”

Achilles sighed and picked at the grass again. “He just told me it was done, and disappeared.”

Patroclus was grinning, so widely that he knew he must look foolish, but it didn’t matter. “Achilles,” he whispered. “Achilles, you weren’t imagining it. Hades was really there.”

Slowly, Achilles looked up at him, his eyes widening. “He…he was there?”

“I saw him too,” Patroclus said excitedly. “By the shore. It was me, Achilles! Of course, I’m not _Aristos Achaion_ , so he must have been lying about that part –”

“He wasn’t,” Achilles said interrupted seriously. “If I don’t know anything else, I know that he wasn’t lying. I am certain of it. You have been and always be the best of the Greeks. It was said in prophecy.”

“ _Me_?”

“Yes,” Achilles said.

“But…but I’m not like you,” Patroclus said dumbly. “I can’t take down Troy, I can’t fight like you can, I can’t lead armies, I can’t even bring my father glory. All I know how to do is love you.”

Achilles smiled at him fondly. “Oh, Patroclus,” he murmured, “that is exactly why you are _Aristos Achaion_. No one can love like you.”

Patroclus blinked.

“Now tell me,” Achilles said. “When you saw Hades, what did he say?”

“Well…he didn’t really say anything, other than to explain why the gods had made you immortal, but I asked him to make you mortal. I didn’t think he listened since he just disappeared, I guess to go find you, but…I guess he did. So you weren’t imagining it.”

Still, Achilles looked uncertain.

“Remember the sand?” Patroclus asked. “And the flecks of gold, and how everything was gone after that day, as if by magic. It was Hades; Poseidon was dead, and the gold was his blood, and the sand was…his body, I guess, or his bones, or something, it doesn’t matter. But Hades came to claim his soul and all the sand and gold vanished, and then I saw him and asked him to make you mortal, told him you deserved better than immortality without the ones you love, and he…I guess he listened.”

Achilles’s green eyes were glistening. “I’m mortal,” he whispered, and a smile, first uncertain, then hopeful, then filled with such joy that Patroclus felt that he couldn’t possibly have known joy before, if this what joy really was. “I’m mortal,” he said again, and then he was crying, and then he was laughing, and then he was flinging himself at Patroclus and holding him tight and kissing him with honeyed lips like he was the thing he loved most in the world.

 

 

Achilles had never changed. He had always looked the same, no matter what; such was immortality. But one week later, lying by the red roses, Patroclus found one silver hair among all the gold.

 

 

 

 

 


	21. Epilogue

 

 

_Patroclus tried to picture it, and flashes of memory came back to him from years ago when he thought of the same thing, lying beside him before he left for Skyros. He had imagined gold turning to silver, graceful and lovely as ever. He had imagined sitting by the lake above the meadow, both of them old and frail but still young in memories. He had imagined lying under the stars with the sweet scent of fresh rain on young grass and the sharpness of pine trees brought to them by the wind._

_He turned to Achilles. “Maybe one day,” he said. “Maybe one day the gods will give you that gift.”_

_“Maybe,” Achilles murmured._

_Maybe, if the gods were kind._

 

 

Gods were cruel, Patroclus thought, many years later. They gave gifts with edges, cursed men to die before their time or not at all, sent storms to dash ship against rocks and tear down cities. But sometimes, miracles happened. Sometimes, they had a change of heart. And just once, once in Achilles’s long life, the gods had been kind, and gold did turn to silver beside him, and they were happy, and both of them grew old. Together.

Patroclus smiled, and took Achilles’s hand.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
